


(we are all looking for) a place to call home

by sanssstark



Series: (we are all looking for) a place to call home [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: At least it is according to tvtropes so ?, Completely AU after ADWD, Gen, Glacial slow build, Peggy Sue, Sansa-centric, Sibling Bonding, Slow Build, There can never be enough time travel fics, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, book!canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-11 02:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 98,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanssstark/pseuds/sanssstark
Summary: Sansa knows that this is a second chance, a second chance at life and a second chance to do things right this time around. But the question is, what can she do?





	1. Winterfell - 303

**Author's Note:**

> This was started in the October of 2015. I wrote a small ficlet about Eddard Stark looking down on his surviving children from "heaven" and examining their deeds.   
> Then, Jon and Sansa reunited on the show and that relit a tiny ember of love in my heart. I reread the books, and fell in love a second time. I watched the Northern Storyline of the show and wrote dozens of tiny drabbles about Jon and Sansa. Eventually, I started writing drabbles within this AU and before I knew it I had 4k of unconnected tiny drabbles written. Rather than throw them away I thought why not post them.  
> I don't really have a proper storyline plotted out beyond a basic idea where i want things to end up and I have never actually posted any fanfiction before, but I hope this passes muster anyway. So, here we are, please enjoy:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Wars And Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit (4.10.2017): only changed a formatting issue. the content is 100% the same.

**_Winterfell – ca 303 AL_ **

The sap drips down from the bark – dripping down into the white snow and Sansa kneels before the Heart Tree and prays. She may have had problems believing in her Father‘s Gods as a child, but now, especially since the Wall fell, Sansa feels the eyes on the Gods on her wherever she goes in the North. Praying seems redundant – the Gods do not answer the prayers of mere mortals – but still, a soft “please” breaks out of her. Only the sound of dropping sap answers her plea. “We cannot do this anymore. Please help us.“

The Gods don’t answer her – no wind whispers in respond, no leaves rustle in the silence of the Godswood – but recently they never do answer her. She had hoped, she had prayed, that perhaps today is different, after the news came from the North – bringing along devastation and heartbreak in only a simple letter.

 

_To Lady Stark, from Daenerys Targaryen:_

Lady Stark, we are losing territories and men. I know it is a heavy burden to ask, but send any able bodied man or woman northward. I have written to the Lords of the South and asked for the same. We are also in desperate need of more Valyrian Blades, more food, more fire, more furs, more clothes. Send anything you can spare. Winter has come, but we need to bring Summer.

**Daenerys Targaryen.**

 

It weren’t those words that brought fear to Sansa’s heart though, as underneath the words of the Dragon Queen were more, written in Jon’s familiar scrawl.

 

Sansa, we are losing. I haven’t heard from Arya in nearly a moon’s turn. Take Rickon and flee south. Dorne, or as south as Southoryos if you can. Go now. **Jon**

Sansa’s gut clenches at the thought of her little sister lost in the wild wilderness of the Lands Beyond the Wall. They had been so close to a victory over the Others just a few moons ago, after the Dragon Mother had abandoned her fight for the Iron Throne. For the first time in years, they had been able to push the Other back, past the ruins of the Wall and Sansa had – finally – returned to Winterfell. Now, Jon was fighting at Castle Black with the Targaryen Queen and her dragons and Arya was lost.

“Please.” Sansa whispers, raising her eyes to the crying Heart Tree. “Please help us.”

*

Rickon refuses to leave, so Sansa refuses to leave also. At least that is what she tells anyone who asks. Still she sends all the servants and the inhabitants of Winter’s Town south until only a few brave souls remain inside Winterfell’s warm walls.

The letters from Castle Black grow scarce and the ones that do come only bring news of death and bad fortune. One day, Sansa wakes up, realizing that she hasn’t heard from the fighters in over two moons and that day she spends half her time praying to the Gods, and the other half thinking of ways she can extend their supplies for another half year at the very least.

Small trickles of fighters still come from the south and she sends them north with the few supplies she can spare and after extracting a promise they will send letters south.

In the end, Sansa’s days are filled with the slow monotony of waiting for letters and praying, until she wakes up one early dawn by the shrill yells of people outside. Rushing, she runs outside and into the courtyard where everyone still remaining in Winterfell is gathered. Sansa looks up at the sky, coming to a stop at Rickon’s side, and gasps.

The unmistakable shape of a dragon is flying right at them, at Winterfell and Sansa’s heartbeat quickens. “Open the gates.” She calls and all together they manage to pull open the nearly frozen gates just as the Dragon touches down outside Winterfell’s walls.

It is Jon.

She sobs, forgetting all sense of impropriety. He swings her around, lifting her feet several inches up the ground and she holds him as tight to her as her frozen fingers allow.

“I bring news from the wall.” He says after letting her go and Sansa looks him over. He looks dreadful – skinny and gaunt, with large, dark bags beneath his eyes and his left arm bandaged and secured tightly to his chest – but it doesn’t matter, because Jon is safe. “Daenerys is lost.”

Sansa’s heart falls. She did not know the Targaryen Queen well, having only met her once, but Sansa realizes that Daenerys Targaryen had ultimately been their only hope.

“Please leave, Sansa.” Jon says quietly. “The Walkers have advanced past the wall already. They will be at Winterfell within the fortnight. Please, Sansa, you cannot stay here.”

Sansa breathes through the panic rising in her chest. She has to stay calm, she tells herself, digging her nails into the bed of her palm. “How many men have died?” Sansa asks, grounding herself in the pain though her voice still comes out strained.

Jon shrugs. “I don’t know. Most followed Dany into the East, and we haven’t heard a word from them all since. About a thousand men fled from Castle Black a week ago. I saw them at the Last Hearth last. There are still a hundred or so men manning each castle along the wall, but I haven’t heard from any of them in weeks.”

Sansa gasps. All together, counting men from all Seven Kingdoms, at least 20 thousand men had been sent north to fight. If Jon’s calculating was correct, Gods, that would mean – Sansa could scarcely believe there were any people even left in Westeros to still fight for.

“And Arya?” Sansa asks, voice small.

Jon’s stoic facade crumbles and he turns away. “I haven’t heard anything.” He says, voice trembling slightly. “I had hoped she had come home.”

“She didn’t.” Sansa says unnecessarily.

Sansa flinches as Maege lays a hand on Sansa’s shoulders. “We should get ready to leave, my lady.”

“Yes.” Sansa says, slowly, not taking her eyes off Jon. “Yes, we should.”

*

Rickon screams and kicks and struggles as she bundles him up in furs. He screams until the gates close behind the last man, abruptly falling quiet as he turns his back on his home for the second time in his heartbreakingly short life. Not for the first time, she wishes she could do something – anything to help him.

“How many times we have left home already.” Jon says, standing by her side as she eyes the abandoned castle. “It reminds me of when we left home the first time. It feels like lifetimes ago.”

“God, how naive we were then.” Sansa whispers, shuddering. If only that Sansa had known what would happen to her in just 5 years, who knows what could have been different.

Jon nudges her side. “We were young. How could we not have been naive?”

Sansa rolls her eyes. Sense is not what she needs to hear in this moment, as the grief of losing her home for the second time hits her hard in the chest so that she can barely breath. “I promised myself I would never leave again.” She admits in a small voice.

“Sansa-” Jon turns to her and gives her a sad, heartbreakingly little smile. He reaches out with his uninjured arm and pulls her close. “I am so sorry.” He whispers into her hair.

“It isn’t your fault.” She says, immediately. It isn’t. Mayhaps once, a long time ago, she would have blamed Jon for it all, but now, now they are both grown. Jon is no longer the sullen boy she remembers from her childhood. Perhaps it shouldn’t be a surprise. It isn’t, truly. They had spent almost 4 moons together, side by side, leading the campaign to take back the north together, and Sansa had grown to know the man her brother had become, just as he had grown to know the woman she had become.

“Why did you come south.” Sansa asks him, suddenly.

“Sorry?”

“Why did you not stay North? With the fight?”

“There is no fight anymore.” Jon says, brutally honest and Sansa looks down at the snow beneath her feet.

So all is lost. All the sacrifices they had made in the fight against the Others, completely irrelevant. All the wars fought in the name of the stupid Iron Throne had been completely irrelevant. All the pain Sansa had endured had been for fucking nothing.

“I don’t want to leave h-”

A loud explosion cuts Sansa off and the ground starts shaking under their feet. Panicking, Sansa looks over to where the rest of their company is already close to the edge of the nearest hill. Rickon! She cannot reach Rickon!

“What in the hells was that?” She demands, voice shrill and high. She shrieks as something explodes beside her and she loses her footing, being pressed into the snow. She cannot breath, she cannot breath underneath the weight on her back and everything is so dark, so dark and she cannot see and she cannot breathe and her chest pains so much.

“-nsa. Sansa. Can you hear me? SANSA!”

She cannot breath, she cannot breathe and she cannot see and she claws at the weight atop of her, she cannot breath.

“Sansa, I need you to calm down for me.”

Sansa sobs, the sound ripping through her ears as the last air is pressed out of her lungs. She slowly takes a breath, some measure of the weight being lifted off her chest and she takes another slow breath, and another until she recognizes Jon.

“I need you to stay calm for me.”

Jon’s face hovers over hers and her breath hitches as her entire body starts hurting. Red blurs her vision and it takes a few moments until she connects that sensation with the dripping wound on Jon’s forehead.

“You’re bleeding.” She whispers, reaching up to touch the exposed flesh.

“So are-”

Another explosion stops Jon and he shields her head against his chest, even as she screams. The ground splits beneath them, and she shrieks loudly, hanging onto Jon with all her might as they fall and fall and fall.

 


	2. Winterfell - 297, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Awakenings And Old Familiar Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here the story starts in proper. I hope you all enjoy. I still have a few chapters lined up for you all, just need to polish them up first. 
> 
> Chapter Warnings: none 
> 
>  
> 
> -x, sanssstark

 

Sansa wakes, gasping – the sensation of falling still traps her limbs and she grasps at the sheets beneath her to calm her rapidly beating heart. She opens her eyes slowly, blinking against the bright sunlight that comes in from the window. It is just past dawn, judging by the way the light falls into her rooms, and the outside looks clear and crisp.

Something isn’t right. She had left Winterfell, they had left Winterfell, but clearly they were still home. Had she dreamed Jon coming to Winterfell? Had she dreamed leaving? It couldn’t be, the memory of falling, of holding onto Jon as they fell into the abyss, was too vivid.

She sits up, still confused, and looks around the room she is in. It takes her a few moments to register the familiar-yet-unfamiliar interior, before moves out of bed and promptly falls out of bed when the floor doesn’t come to meet her as she had expected.

It couldn’t be, Sansa thinks looking down at her legs – the ones resembling those of a child more than they resembled her own, and she looks around her room and suddenly she realizes why the furniture looks so familiar. She stands up and runs a hand over the familiar vanity and finds the distinctive nab she had carved in it when she had been 9.

It can’t be.

Every detail of the room matches her childhood bedroom back at Winterfell, the one the Bolton’s had burned to the ground. The closet with the delicate winter roses painted on one side, the bed filled with more furs and feather pillows than Sansa had ever needed and the finely woven rugs that had been lying on the floor of the room since before father had been born. Every detail matches and it just cannot be.

Trying to reassure, convince, something herself she moves to the mirror, staring at herself in shock. The face that greets her is that of a little girl, a face long forgotten but still familiar. She can still recognize herself, even with the lighter hair, a paler face and a body so much smaller. How could this be? What tricks is her mind playing on her? What cruel, cruel tricks?

How could this be, Sansa thinks again, stepping to the window. Like she recalls from her childhood, the window overlooks the woods just east of Winterfell. She can see far – it is a beautiful day, crisp and sharp – and there is nothing out of the ordinary outside the walls. Making a decision, Sansa opens the closet, marveling at the fine gown she finds there. She truly had been a spoiled child, she realizes. While the gowns were barely opulent compared to the gowns favored at court, thy were so much richer than anything Sansa had worn in the past years. She pulls out her simplest dress, a pale gray woolen dress that is still fine and smooth to her touch, and slips it on. She makes her way out of her rooms, careful to not meet anyone on the way, and hurries to the Godswood as fast as her legs can take her.

She notices the change in the Godswood the moment she steps onto the dirt ground. The entire place seems smaller, and less … aware … than it had been in the Winterfell of her fast … future … dream … whatever it had been. The Gods have less of a presence now and only her faith makes her distantly aware of the low whispers of the trees. No wonder her mother had problems believing in the Northern Gods.

“Did you do this?” She asks. She falls to her knees before the Heart Tree, and repeats. “Did you do this?” She needs only a rustle of the leaves, a gust of the wind, a movement in the branches, or anything really. “Please. I need to know.”

She loses all sense of time as she kneels at the foot of the Heart Tree, repeating the plea in her head, again and again until it is the only thing she can think about.

Still, the Gods do not respond.

“Sansa?”

She stand and spins, smoothing her face into an innocent expression – a reflex ingrained in her soul from years of being careful and sneaking around to get some peace and quiet in King’s Landing. She scrambles back a couple of steps, before recognizing her father. Eddard Stark looks like everything she remembers, tall and solid and as lean and dark as Jon had been.

“I don’t believe I have ever seen you in the Godswood this early, Sansa.” Her father says, voice quietly amused and smooth and soft. “Aren’t you cold?”

She cannot stop staring – this is the father, her father whose death she had ultimately caused, her father who looks so much more vibrant and  _ alive _ than she remembers him. Being in King's Landing had never suited him, where he spent his days fretting and worrying, making him seem like a shadow of himself. This Ned Stark smiles as he gathers her in a warm, solid hug. She shudders, suppressing a rush of grief that threatens to spill out of her mouth.

“Are you cold, darling?”

She shivers again, finally noticing the humid icy-cold that is plastered at her front. She looks down at her dress, muddy from kneeling on the ground and discolored where the moisture of the ground had seeped up.

“A bit.” Sansa says, softly, not trusting her own voice to say any more.

“Why are you in the Godswood?”

“I woke up early.” She tells him. She cannot bring herself to say any more. What can she say? She does not know what happened to her, if this is all real, or just a figment of her imagination. Mayhaps she is dead after all and this is heaven, but Sansa does not believe in heaven. She does not think that the Gods would remake her into a little girl just for heaven either. But still she does not, she cannot believe that she is back either – what reasons would the Gods have to send her back to a time where she is a child at Winterfell?

“Your mother was very worried when you did not come to breakfast, Sansa.” His voice is gently admonishing, but when she looks up at him, he smiles gently, softly. “But I am glad you have come here.”

“Do the Gods ever speak to you, father?” She asks.

“Sometimes, yes.” He says. “The Gods will speak to you too when you are ready for what they wish to tell you.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, and Sansa marvels, again, that it is her father beside her, talking to her after all this time. Sansa tucks her head against his elbow and breathes in his scent. She missed him so much.

“Do you wish to tell me what you prayed to the Gods for?”

Sansa thinks. She knows that this is a second chance, a second chance at life and a second chance to do things right this time around. But the question is, what can she do? Sansa figures that she can try to make her father rebuff King Robert’s proposal so that they all shall never have to go south. If she tells him all she knows now, mayhaps this will all be easier, but Sansa knows her father. He does not believe in magic, he only believes in the will of the Gods and in the goodness of men. She doubts he would truly believe her.

“Not yet.” She says, softly hoping he will understand.

Her father is not the only one she wants to save. She needs to save Bran from his fall, save Mother and Robb from dying, and needs to save Arya from becoming the cold girl she had been.

And knowing what will come to the North so soon, she knows that even more important than saving her family is preparing them all for the arrival of the White Walkers. She needs to make people, make father, believe in fairy tales and she does not know if she is capable of doing that.

“Do you wish to stay and pray for a little longer?” Father asks and when she shakes her head, he helps her up. “Then lets join the others for breakfast.”

He keeps a hand on her shoulder as they move back through the castle to the hall. She is grateful for the solid warmth at her side, unsure if she could go and face the rest of her family without her father by her side. He may not know of Sansa’s trepidation, but still his presense makes her feel more secure in her own, too small skin.

Still she hesistates, just for a few heartbeats, before going into the hall. Her mother looks over first and it takes all of Sansa’s will to not run out of the room again. Gods, she had prayed to see her mother in full again so many times, but this.

Catelyn Stark looks nothing like she remembers, nothing like Lady Stoneheart had looked, but still she is Mother. Her mother smiles, looking so relieved and Sansa follows her father to the table.

“I apologize for being late. Time passed a lot quicker than I realized.” Sansa says, giving her mother a small smile.

Catelyn only smiles. “Sit down, Sansa.”

Sansa takes a seat beside Arya and finally looks at the other members of the table, of her family.

Robb, darling big brother Robb, barely looks up when she smiles at him, still speaking with Theon. Robb looks so young, Sansa realizes. For her, he had always been the big brother to look up to, the big brother who had always seemed  _ so _ grownup. Now though, where she had been 2 years older than Robb had been when he died, she realizes how young her brother had been when they had put the weight of the crown atop of his head. She still does not know what factors exactly had worked together to make Robb fall into the trap the Frey’s, Bolton’s and Lannister’s had laid out for him, but looking at him now – seeing him looking so much like a child, like Rickon – she realizes how his age must have had a part to play in that disaster as well.

Next to Robb is Theon. Theon who had ruined his bond to their family so quickly, who had being ruined by Ramsay Bolton in turn. Sansa had seen Theon once, after everything, and she could not understand how this cocky and brash young man had become that broken man in the future.

“Sansa, are you not going to eat?” Mother asks from next to her and Sansa looks from the boys to her plate, filled with more food than she ate in 3 days before. Her stomach cramps up at the thought of eating so much food in one sitting and she wonders how much of her thoughts are reflected on her face, as her mother sighs loudly beside her. “Are you not feeling well, Sansa?”

“Do you think I could get a tea?” Sansa asks. “I am still a little cold.”

“Of course, darling.” Mother says.

Sansa eyes her carefully. She does not look as old as Sansa had expected. Her face was free of lines and her hair was still a vibrant red, much darker than Sansa’s own. She looks so beautiful, Sansa thinks, nothing like the Lady Stoneheart had been. She looks alive and so beautiful, Sansa’s heart aches.

She will need to save her, her mama, from dying at the hands of the Freys. She cannot bear anything else. She cannot bear losing her mother – again.

“Darling, don’t play with your food.”

Her eyes dart over to Rickon, lovely darling Rickon who is so  _ small _ . He is playing with his food, pushing the fried egg around his plate with a “whoosh” sound, and he looks up defiantly at Mother. He is so small, Sansa marvels, but it shouldn’t be a surprise. This Rickon is only 3 years old, the one she had grown to love so so fiercly had been 8 years old already. Rickon brushes off Mother’s comments by sticking half of the egg into his mouth, egg yolk dripping down his chin and he gives them a yolky grin. Once, Sansa would have told him not even wildlings were as ill behaved. Now, she just stays quiet.

She jumps as the nearest maid hands her a steaming cup of tea and she thanks her, smiling softly all the while. She takes a small sip and nearly grimaces at the overly sweet lavender taste. Still the warmth quickly spreads into her belly, loosening the knots that had formed there. Finally her plate, still filled with more food than she wishes to ever eat, appears a bit more appetizing. She cuts off a piece of fried ham and chews it thoughtfully.

At the end she had cooked for herself at times. After they had sent almost everyone away, when only she, Rickon, Maege Mormont and a few others remained, it had seemed so cruel to force a cook to stay. While her own attempts at cooking had often ended in edible, but not particularly tasty food, she had grown rather talented in rationing the food still available to them. While it had broken her heart to see Rickon shrink slowly, the food would have – should have been enough to last them at least another half year more.

Of all the important things she would have to accomplish with her second chance, making sure they all had enough food when winter comes is far down on her list, but Sansa would rather not repeat the feeling of hunger gnawing at her own stomach. Perhaps she could convince Father to make alliances with the Reach. The Tyrell’s, Sansa knew, had more grain than they needed, but not enough timber. And the North had more than enough timber. Sansa sighs. All her thoughts and her plans would be for nought if she could not stop half her family from dying in a useless war in the south.

She looks over at Robb and marvels again how this boy will one day be the King they had called the Young Wolf. The stories the singers had told about Robb had scared even the most fearsome child in the south and Sansa cannot see that man in the boy sitting across from her today.

And Jon, Jon looks even younger than Robb does. There is little of the tall, bearded and broad man left in the lean boy sitting on Robb’s other side. He is looking down at his food, pale and his hand shakes as he pushes a sausage back and forth.

He looks up catching Sansa looking at him, and she does not know why she does not look away, but they stare at each other for a few moments. He smiles, a soft and slow smile that spreads across his face slowly, and she looks down.

It is a strange feeling, she realizes, knowing that she will never meet the older version of Jon, of Rickon, of Arya again. No matter what happens, if she succeeds changing their lives or not, they will not be the same people they were, simply because she is not the person she was. 

She looks up again, but Jon is still staring. 

_ Sansa! Look out!  _

Sansa flinched as the memory of Jon's voice and the sound of an arrow flying over her head echoes in her mind. 

_ Sansa pants as she squats behind the tent, pressing a hand against her rapidly beating heart. The world still spins as she stares at the arrow embedded in the wooden post across from her.  _

_ “Shit. Sansa.”  _

_ She can't even admonish Jon for the curse, laughing helplessly as Jon runs her hands over her head.  _

_ “Shit Sansa.” _

_ Gods, it was so close. She can still feel the arrow brushing by her head and it… Gods. Gods, when she begged Jon to let her come, she never thought she would actually see any fighting from closer than a hundred feet away.  _

_ “Did it work?” Sansa breathes, her heart still thumping in her chest almost painfully. She resists the urge to stand up and look - there was no need for another distraction.  _

_ “Gods I hope so.” Jon says. “You can not do that again.”  _

_ “Jon-” _

_ “Never again.”  _

_ They sit in silence, waiting for the signal. The camp is strangely quiet, all those involved in the plot waiting in silence and the rest of their men following their lead.  _

_ Gods, Sansa prays this works. She cannot bear another minute of sitting outside Winterfells walls while not being able to enter her home.  _

A loud crash rips Sansa from her memories and she takes a few steadying breaths trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. 

She is home, she reminds herself. She is back home at Winterfell with her family all with her and they are all fine. 

Bran laughs loudly at something Arya says and Sansa looks over at them both.

Arya is so small, so young and she looks nothing like the young woman who had turned up at Winterfells gates with a deer carcass swung over her shoulder. Arya had never talked about what she had gone through in her weeks at Winterfell but Sansa assumed it was much worse than she could ever imagine. 

And Bran - Rickon had sworn Bran was still alive, begging Sansa again and again to let him go north to find him. Looking at Bran now it is difficult for Sansa to believe the wondrous stories of Bran taking control of his wolf's body and having visions of past and future events when she looks at the young, happy boy sitting at the table with her. 

She needs to figure out what date it is, Sansa realizes suddenly. She needs to figure out when the King will be traveling north, how much time she will have to change father's mind. 

After breakfast finishes, Sansa finds herself pulled into Septa Mordanes solar by Jeyne Poole. It is cruel of her, but Sansa cannot bear to look at either of them. It is not their fault, but Sansa only sees the horrid images of their broken bodies flashing across her mind. She is aware of the Septa’s worried glances every couple of minutes, but she stays quiet for much of the hours they spend together. 

Her mind races as she carefully works the thread into the wolf she had apparently started as a young girl and she pricks her fingers more often in an hour than she had done in years before. The entire embroidery comes out as rather malformed and crooked, and Sansa wonders if it is a rather cruel sign of the Gods when she stares at the finished work. 

She is glad when Septa Mordane lets them leave and for once in her life, Sansa flees the room as fast as Arya usually does. She hurries through the halls of WInterfell until she reaches her rooms, barely holding in her tears while she goes. 

The moment the door falls shut behind her, every inch of Sansa’s facade breaks and the tears she had kept in check for so long finally start rolling. She stifles her sobs with one hand as she leans back against the door, sinking down to the floor. 

It hurts. 

It hurts so much she can barely breathe. Sansa is afraid she will awaken tomorrow and be back in a place where half her family is dead and where she is losing her home all over again. She is afraid she will awaken tomorrow and everything will be back to normal. It will shatter she heart into a thousands broken pieces. 

It hurts so much to look at all the people all the people she had lost, knowing that she could lose them all over again. She would rather  _ die _ than have to grieve them all over again. 


	3. Winterfell - 297, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Realizations And Opportunities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you all so so so much for your exceptionally kind comments. It is so lovely to see that this little story of mine seems to be enjoyed so much. Thank you to everyone who commented and gave kudos, I love you all a lot. 
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter Warning: misogynistic language, violence all in flashbacks. 
> 
> Please enjoy, sanssstark

 

 

 

 

The next three days pass in a haze. After waking up and realizing that it all had not been a dream, she runs all the possibilities of what she can do to save _everyone_ through her mind, but none of them seem particularly good or clever to Sansa.

She goes to her lessons with Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane, she eats with her family and she spends the rest of her time locked in her room. She doesn’t dare to visit the Godswood again, sure that if the Gods do truly have something to tell her, they will find another way.

Today, she stands at the edge of the practice yard watching Robb, Jon and Theon getting lessons from Ser Rodrik. Arya and Bran stand by her side as they watch Robb and Theon clash swords together.

“Have you always been this bad Theon?” Robb teases and Sansa eyes the Greyjoy with caution.

_Sansa cannot bring herself to feel any kind of pity for the broken man at her feet. He kneels, head pressed against the hem of her dress and she has to stop herself from moving and letting him fall into the dirt._

_“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.” He chants and Sansa stares down at Theon Greyjoy with a blank mind. “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.”_

_“GET AWAY FROM HER!”_

_Sansa spins around at the roar and stumbles as Theon’s hands keep hold on her dress. Jon is by her side immediately, catching her by the elbow while kicking Theon away from her._

_Theon sprawls across the mud and he stares up at the both of them with tears in his eyes. “Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.”_

_“Sansa, let's go.” Jon says quietly, but even he doesn’t move as they stare at Theon together._

_It is hard to remember that this broken shell of a man is the same man as the boy who had teased Robb and Jon mercilessly in the yards of Winterfell. It is less hard to forget that Theon is the reason Bran and Rickon are dead and that Winterfell is lost. The ugly hate rising in Sansa’s throat threatens to choke her and she turns away angrily._

_“Get him out of my sight.” She commands._

_“What are you going to do with him, my Lady?” Maege asks quietly._

_Sansa thinks of Jeyne Poole, who had begged for Theon’s life. She thinks of the nightmares she had of Rickon and Bran’s bodies and she thinks of the scars on Theon’s. “We’ll hold a trial in a week. Let him stew in the dungeons.”_

The sound of Theon’s weeping hangs in her head as she stares at Theon fighting Robb. Gods. What had happened to Theon to make him betray Robb as he had.

Sansa shudders at the memory and when she looks up Jon is looking at her. He looks so so different than how she remembers him being as a young boy.

Jon's smile is the same as it was, slow and heavy as honey, making Sansa feel as though her entire world had frozen for just a second.

When she smiles back, Jon's smile drops and for a second she wonders what she had done wrong until he approaches her.

“So who do you think will win?” he isn't only asking her, voice loud enough so that even Ser Rodrik can hear him, but he stands beside Sansa.

“Robb!” Bran and Arya say immediately.

Sansa eyes the two boys fighting for a few moments, eyeing their movements. “Theon will win. Robb is slower and leaving his left side open.”

Arya scoffs loudly but in that moment Robb leaves his left side unprotected and Theon gives him a gentle jab.

“You're dead, Stark.” Theon announces and Robb sighs melodramatically, flopping to the ground.

Sansa allows herself a small, smug grin, absurdly happy that she had read the fight correctly.

Jon nudges her shoulder softly and whispers “well spotted” into her ear. She grins at him and it suddenly feels a lot like it had when the both of them had presided over the melee to decide who would be part of their Guard.

With a loud shriek, Rickon jumps on Robbs belly and Robb groans in pain. Sansa’s heart hurts at the fondness she suddenly feels for all of her siblings.

“I learn!” Rickon shrieks, moving to pick up Robb’s discarded sword. Luckily Theon is there to pick it up before Rickon can reach it and he swings it over his shoulder.

“When?” Rickon asks with a pout.

“When you are older.” Robb asks and by the expression on Rickon’s face Sansa winces at the approaching tantrum.

Before Rickon can start screaming, Jon grabs him by the knees swinging him upside down and Rickon shrieks with laughter instead of anger.

Sansa breathes a sigh of relief, thanking Jon for his quick thinking.

“I want to learn too!” Arya exclaims then. “And I am older!”

Sansa looks over at her sister who is already scowling, probably knowing what the answer will be.

Something about Arya’s idea makes Sansa wonder. Would it truly be such a bad thing for Arya to know how to protect herself? For years one of Sansa’s nightmares had been about Arya lying somewhere in a ditch. If Arya could at least protect herself… and if Sansa was honest with herself, she could use the lessons as well.

_Sansa paced the length of her rooms urgently, unable to keep her mind off of the battle that was surely happening in that moment. Jon had promised he would send word to her as soon as the battle was over, but as always there was no promise that he would survive it all._

_If they took the Twins … Sansa could barely think it in fear of the hope overwhelming her. But if they took the Twins the road to the north would finally be opened up for them. They could -_

_Sansa shrieks in fright as the man suddenly appear before her and she raises her hands in protection. She barely registers the pain as the knife catches her arm and she stumbles back, grabbing behind her in the hope of something, anything to protect herself. “HELP!” she screams, while scrambling back until the bed is between her and the man. “SOMEONE HELP!”_

_“No one can save you cunt.” the man hisses and he flips his knife before lunging at her._

_Sansa grabs the lantern from behind her and swings blindly. “HELP!” The man tackles her and the breath is knocked out of her when he lands on her. She scratches wildly at his face, not getting any air as he leans down on her throat and her chest is seizing and oh gods, oh gods this is how she is going to die, how can this be how she is going to die after everything how can this be it. Her hands grasp at anything and she swings blindly when it finally connects with something._

_Air rushes back into her lungs as her attacker falls back._

_Sansa scrambles up, the sudden movement clouding her mind for a minute. She dives for the discarded dagger on the floor and raises it just as the man lunges at her. She can feel the dagger connect with the man and she jerks her hands in surprise as his blood suddenly drenches her face. She splutters and closes her eyes in fear. The man jerks once, twice, three times and he falls on top of her and every damn breaks as she starts sobbing, pushing and shoving at the body on top of her._

She needs to know how to protect herself so that pure dumb luck isn't the only reason she survives the next time someone attacks her. The feeling of being alone and utterly helpless had paralyzed her for a week after the incidence and Sansa would give anything to never have that experience again.

She watches as Jon swings Rickon upside down from his ankles and she wonders if mayhaps he would be willing to teach her, her and Arya. Robb would never go against their parent’s wishes so blatantly and while Theon surely would be thrilled to do something against the rules, Sansa has great doubts he would be a good teacher of any kind. Jon however … Sansa knows the man Jon would become and there had to be some of that man in the boy he was now.

She approaches him about it later when they are alone, Jon on his way to put the training gear back into their proper place. She corners him in the doorway and Jon looks at her as if she grew 5 heads as she makes her case.

“Please Jon.” Sansa says, willing to beg as much as needed. “For me, for Arya.”

He sighs, head falling and she knows she convinced him. “Tomorrow. At Dawn. If this is some kind of joke …”

“It’s not!” Sansa swears, hurt that Jon would even think that. “We could meet in the Godswood.”

“The Godswood?”

“I doubt that anyone could sleep through Arya learning to sword fight in the training yard.” Sansa smirks.

“Tomorrow, at dawn, in the Godswood.” Jon agrees. He eyes her again, a peculiar expression on his face. “Sansa-”

She waits, but he doesn’t continue.

“What?”

Jon’s hand raises but falls to his side again and he shakes his head. “Nothing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jon brushes past her and she stands in the barracks, watching him leave. Well at least she had convinced him to help her, she thinks, no matter how reluctant Jon is.

The next morning she awakens long before dawn, dressing carefully in her warmest winter breeches, two layers of shirts and her sturdiest pair of boots. She sneaks to Arya’s room and wakes her, making her dress as quickly as possible.

Arya scowls and yawns and stumbles after her into the Godswood. “Are you planning to kill me now?”

“What? No I - “

Jon approaches before she can say more and Sansa smirks as both Jon and Arya look stunned.

“You really meant it.” Jon marvels. “Okay then. With what are we starting?”

Arya scowls fiercely. “Starting with what? What are you talking about? Can someone tell me why Sansa woke me up at ass o'clock in the morning?”

“Language.”

“Wait Sansa didn't tell you?”

Both Jon and Arya turn to stare at Sansa. She can only shrug. “I figured she wouldn't believe me.”

“Believe what?” Arya asks petulantly. “Can someone tell me what is going on?”

“Jon is going to teach us how to fight.”

“Well I will try.” Jon corrects her as Arya looks at the both of them in shock. “how well I succeed is completely up to you.”

“Is this a joke?” Arya says, voice quiet and almost sad. “Are you playing a joke on me? That is mean, Jon.”

“What? No! Arya I promise this isn't a joke.” Jon says immediately, voice distressed and hurried.

“Then why is _she_ here.”

That hurts. Sansa is well aware of her rather contemptuous relationship with her younger sister, but still it hurts that Arya has so little trust in her. Sansa turns away to hide her face, not sure she is able to hide the rush of emotion she feels at that moment.

Arya. Her little sister had gone through so much, and Sansa had gone through so much, and now all the petty fights they had seemed so truly irrelevant.

“It was Sansa’s idea, Arya. Don't be cruel.” Jon says. He looks over at her with a gentle, concerned look on his face and Sansa wonders how much of her thoughts are projected onto her face. Petyr would be horrified, she thinks with a grim sort of amusement.

“Since when are you on her side.” Arya spits, arms crossed and eyebrows tightly knit.

Jon huffs. “I am on no one's side. There are no sides here.”

Sansa eyes Arya who scowls when she catches Sansa looking. “Jon can only teach me if you would rather go back to bed.” Sansa says mildly, with the voice she had used to placate Rickon during the worst of his tantrums.

Arya scowls, stomping over to where Jon had dropped the wooden training swords and picking one of them up. Sansa looks over at Jon and can't help the small grin on her face. He grins back, before rushing to save Arya from stabbing herself.

“You joining us?” Jon asks, holding out a sword for her to take.

Sansa grabs it and carefully grasps at the hilt until the sword rests somewhat comfortably in her hand. She experiments with lifting it a bit and adjusts her grip when the sword nearly falls from her hand.

“Here hold it like this.” Jon twists her hand around and laughs at her grimace. “Don't worry. It'll feel more natural when your hands are less soft.”

Sansa hopes so, since the new grip is already tiring her hand. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea after all. Arya already stands in an aggressive stance and she swings her sword around wildly, looking more than comfortable with the sword in her hand. Sansa would never be as comfortable, she already knew, but she would at least try.

Jon makes them run through gentle, slow movements until even Sansa grows frustrated at the speed of their progress. He laughs when Arya tells him to hurry it up. “You two have no muscles to speak of. You need to learn the absolute basics before we can do any fighting.”

They keep going through the drills until Sansa’s arm pains when she movements and her breath comes in short pants. She forgets sometimes that she isn’t living in the same body as she is used to. Even after months of near starvation during the war, Sansa had always been tall and healthy, so being back in her tiny, short and skinny 11 year old body had made for some adjustments the past days.

“I need a moment.” She pants, dropping onto a tree bark to calm her racing heart. “I am not sure I will ever be able to swing a proper sword.”

“I can teach you something else if you like.” Jon says immediately and Sansa wonders just how idiotic she looked just now. It certainly felt as though she had been supremely ungraceful the entire time.

Arya stands at the side a familiar, mulish expression on her face and she fidgets with her sword. With another look at her sister, Sansa shakes her head. “Sometime else, perhaps. Keep on teaching Arya. I am tired anyways.”

Arya looks up in surprise, Jon smiles at her and Sansa knows she made the right choice. Her little sister was still so scared that this was a joke and that Sansa would push her out again. The knowledge Arya trusts her so little still hurts but Sansa figures that these lessons could do wonders for their relationship. Sansa hopes they will.

Arya does well without Sansa slowing her down and before long Arya and Jon are mock fighting with Arya laughing loudly. Sansa watches them fondly. This is good, she thinks. If Sansa cannot stop any of the tragedy happening to her family, Sansa would rather know Arya well protected by her own hand. For so many years, the image of her little sister lying somewhere in a ditch by the side of the Kingsroad had haunted Sansa’s nightmares. Even after Arya had returned to Winterfell, somehow the story of what had actually happened to her, had not actually done much to soothe Sansa’s nightmares. She would give anything for Arya to have a peaceful and quiet childhood.

The sun is almost risen when Arya falls onto the floor, and as she lays there panting Sansa rises from her seat at the foot of the Heart Tree. “We should go back inside. It is getting late.”

Jon agrees, sending Arya - covered in dirt and sweat - off to take a bath. “Would you rather learn archery?” He asks once Arya has disappeared. “Or how to yield a dagger?”

Sansa shrugs. “I don't know. I am not really experienced with either.” Except that time at Riverrun, she thinks privately, but that was something she would rather not think about.

Jon frowns.

“Well there was that time at Riverrun.”


	4. Winterfell - 297, Pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Reunifications.

“Well there was that time at Riverrun.”

Sansa freezes and her mouth drops open, staring up at Jon who looks as though he is doing some rather quick thinking. Before he can say anything she flings herself at him and buries her face in his neck. “Oh thank the Gods, thank the Gods, thank the Gods.”

 

_ For a moment she thinks it is her father, having miraculously survived Ilyn Payne but she knows immediately that cannot be. She saw Father’s head on the pike in King’s Landing.  _

_ “Jon?” It passes Sansa’s lips without her consent and she clasps a cold, shaking hand to her lips. Her vision blurs, heart pounding in her chest until she cannot think of anything but Jon, Jon, Jon.  _

_ Her knees collapse, and the screaming pain of her wrist as she fails to catch herself before crashing to the cold stone floor brings her back to reality in a heartbeat. Jon has not moved, but she knows it is him. She looks over at her brother, and is not that wonderful to think again, looks so stunned - there is no other word for it. His mouth is gaping and he stares at her for several heartbeats before rushing forward.  _

_ Sansa chokes on a sob as Jon hugs her, and Gods she does not care at all that anyone could see them. Jon holds her tightly and she can feel him shiver. Gods. Tears blur Sansa’s sight and she sniffs to keep them from falling.  _

 

“Sansa?”

“Oh thank the Gods. I thought I was alone. I thought I was losing my mind. Oh thank the Gods.” she babbles as Jon's back relaxes and he holds her tight. “Oh thank the Gods.”

“I was not sure.” Jon whispers into the side of her face. “Gods, I was not sure.”

Sansa let's Jon go and when she has firm ground under her feet again, she turns to the Heart Tree. “Thank you.” Mayhaps the Gods had a reason for not answering before, not when they sent Jon back with her. 

“How long has it been for you?” Jon asks, softly. He has a rare, big smile on his face and Sansa wants to weep with happiness. “Gods. Sansa.”

Sansa traces a finger along his scarless face. “You look so young. I barely recognized you.”

Jon laughs. “You should see yourself. I forgot we were all ever this young.”

“Gods, have you seen Rickon! He is still a true babe.” Sansa marvels, so happy she finally has someone to talk with. “And Robb! Can you imagine this Robb leading any men into battle.”

Jon laughs a little helplessly, shaking his head. “Sansa.” He says, voice breaking and suddenly Jon's eyes brim with unshed tears. “Gods Sansa.”

Sansa bites her lip fighting against the urge to cry herself. “I…” She sniffles, clears her throat and caresses Jon's cheek once, twice, three times. “I am so glad you are here with me.”

He smiles, a sad sad smile that almost breaks Sansa’s heart. “Let's go. We'll be late for breakfast.”

It hurts her to let go of his face, afraid he'll disappear when she stops touching him, afraid this was all just a cruel dream. 

*

The next days pass more quickly than Sansa would have ever thought possible. What time is not occupied by Septa Mordane, Sansa spends hidden away in the castle with Jon by her side as they write down everything they remember of their past life. 

In the end Sansa’s small, neat handwriting has filled over 4 rolls of parchment which she hides under her finest dresses and gets out every evening to read again and again and again. 

“We need to save Jon Arryn.” Sansa says, after pouring over the scrolls again. Jon looks up from where he sits, frowning. “If Lord Arryn does not die, the court does not come north and we never have to go south.” 

“But how do you save a man you have never met?” Jon asks, frustrated. 

“We could tell Father.” Sansa suggests, immediately dismisses the thought herself. Their father would never believe them, not when they would practically accuse Mother’s sister of murdering her husband in half a years time. For all Sansa loves her father, he is not a man to believe in much of the mysticism that will surround their - and hopefully his - lives soon enough.

Jon shakes his head. “We cannot tell Father. We could write to Jon Arryn.”

“And say what?” Sansa asks, mockingly. “Dear Lord Arryn, my Lady Aunt, your wife, is trying to kill you because The Master of Coin, a man she is in love with, is telling her to, but he is only telling her to because he is actually still in love with your wife’s sister and my mother Lady Catelyn. Sincerely, Sansa Stark.”

Jon huffs out a laugh. “Well …”

“Or how about: Dear Lord Hand, your master of coins is seducing your wife into killing you because he is in love with your wife’s sister, who is also the wife of my father. I am also a 14 year old bastard who has never left the North and has never met you, your master of coin or your wife, so you should very much trust me. Sincerely, Jon Snow.”

“I get your point.” Jon says, rolling his eyes.

“Thank you.” Sansa says graciously.  

They both sit in silence for a moment. It all seems impossible, Sansa realizes. Neither of them have enough power and influence in this life to change anything. Nothing they could say would make anyone believe a bastard boy or a little girl, no matter how truthful their warning.

“This is going to be difficult.” Jon says, speaking her thoughts.

Sansa looks at him. “Are you going to leave Winterfell? Are you going to go to the Wall?”

Jon freezes and he looks down at the parchment they have titled: The Others. “I-” Jon stutters. “I-, I do not know.”

It is a question he has been struggling with for the entire week, Sansa knows this. From his stories of the Wall, Jon made a big difference in the relationship between the North and the Wildlings and without him at the Wall the War with the Others could potentially be so much worse. But Sansa also knew that she would very much like him to stay at her side.

“Could we tell Uncle Benjen?” Sansa asks then, suddenly remembering her uncle to whom she had never been particularly close.

Jon shrugs. “I guess, but why would he believe us?”

“He is a Ranger, correct? He could change do the things you did at the Wall without you needing to be there.” Sansa pulls the scroll titled: The Wall closer and looks for Uncle Benjen’s disappearance. “If he does not disappear beyond the wall he could become the next Lord Commander, correct?”

“Maybe-” Jon says slowly and there is a glazed look in his eyes. “Maybe – if Ben, and then if – huh.” He looks at her and grins. “That might work!”

“So we tell Uncle Ben the next time he visits?” Sansa asks.

“That will only be when Robert comes to North.” Jon says, remembering. “Telling Ben will not keep Father from going south, or the War from happening.”

He is right, Sansa knows. Even if Uncle Benjen believes them about what will happen in the North, it will change nothing about Father’s death. They still need to stop Jon Arryn from dying, and Sansa realizes she had just made fun of Jon for suggesting a letter, but she realizes that it might not be such a bad idea afterall.

“How about Dany?”

“What?” Sansa asks, ripped from her thoughts.

“How about we tell Dany about what will happen? It might make her come North earlier and ignore the Throne.”

“Are her dragons even hatched yet?” Sansa asks, confused. “They were still so young.”

Jon frowns and Sansa smiles as she watches him use his fingers to count backwards. “I think – If I am right, her dragons will hatch late next year.”

“So what do you want to tell her?” Sansa asks. “That she is the Prince that was Promised as she will save the world from destruction? That did not work so well did it.”

“Well, if we could just make her come to Westeros earlier then -”

“No”. Sansa cuts Jon off. “That would start a whole different war. If a Targaryen would come to Westeros  _ now _ , we would never see the end of war. No one wants a Targaryen back on the Throne. It would only be one more Crown competing for the Throne.”

Sansa cannot even imagine Cersei’s reaction if a Targaryen Dragon Rider would come to Westeros for her throne. It would end in utter bloodshed. And Sansa does not want to see the world end in ice, but she also does not want to see it burn in fire.

Jon’s face falls and she sighs. “We should keep this to ourselves.” She tells him softly. “At least for a little while.”

“But we cannot do nothing!” Jon says, standing up abruptly and Sansa flinches in the face of his anger. “They will die, Sansa! They will all die and I cannot fucking watch them all die again!”

“I know.” She says quietly, calmly. “I cannot either, Jon. But we have to be patient.”

“So what do you want us to do?”

“Ask Maester Luwin to use his library. Maybe help him organize it, or just say you want to learn more about the wall. Learn everything you can about the Others. Anything.”

“And what about you?” Jon asks, quietly. “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to try and convince Father to never go South.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this is fairly short, but the next chapters should follow soon so I hope you all forgive me :).
> 
> i am enjoying all of your comments so much and just, thank you thank you thank you thank you. 
> 
> Love, Sanssstark


	5. Winterfell - 298, Pt.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Letters And Unwelcome Memories.

After another 3 weeks of arguing about it, Sansa eventually does send a letter south. It takes surprisingly little persuasion to convince Maester Luwin to lend her one of his Ravens. He had in fact been very obliging in sending a letter to Lysa Arryn, Sansa’s Aunt, when Sansa had claimed she were asking her Aunt for help with a name days present for her mother. Sometimes, Sansa muses, it was advantageous being the obedient daughter - no one ever expected subterfuge of her. 

Sansa realizes that if Jon Arryn should feel inclined to investigate who sent him the letter, the Raven would lead back to Maester Luwin and the Starks eventually and that could bring about problems that Sansa cannot even begin to comprehend now, but it is a risk she is willing to take. 

Jon continues to teach her and Arya and while Arya is steadily improving, Sansa still feels utterly wrong with a sword, bow or dagger in her hands. It is only the fear of what is coming that stop her from giving up entirely. It does Arya good as well, Sansa thinks, to know with full certainty that there is one thing that she excels at. 

“Sansa?” Arya asks one morning, as they both sit over their Septa-mandated needlework. “Thank you for -” Arya gives Sansa a small, shy smile and Sansa smiles back immediately. “I really like this.” 

“I do too.” Sansa admits. “I may not be good at fighting, but I like learning.”

Arya eyes her for a moment. “You have changed.” 

Sansa freezes, just for a brief heartbeat, before giving Arya a carefree smile. “Of course I have changed. I am nearly a flowered woman.” 

It does the trick. Arya looks away rolling her eyes like she does whenever Sansa mentions anything about being a woman, a lady, or a girl. Sansa smiles at Arya, little little Arya who is so young and so … well, innocent. “I am never going to flower.” 

“That is not how it works.” Sansa tells Arya, and the familiar angry, sullen look is back on Arya’s face immediately. “I mean -” Arya looks away and Sansa sighs.

“Did you know, Arya, that you look like our Aunt?” Sansa asks, inspiration striking. 

“Aunt Lyanna.” 

“Yes.” Sansa nods. “Did you know that Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crown Prince, crowned her queen of Love and Beauty during a Tourney in the South?” 

And that had led to the demise of House Targaryen, to the Start of Robert’s Rebellion and had only led to war and death - but Sansa would rather not tell Arya that. 

“So?” 

“Our Aunt Lyanna was so beautiful, the Crown Prince crowned her over his own wife.” Sansa explains. “And I heard that she loved fighting as well.” 

Arya glances up at her, shyly from beneath her eyelashes and Sansa smiles back when she catches Arya looking. She thinks Arya understands what Sansa is telling her. 

This feels familiar, Sansa thinks, remembering the days spent sitting in the heated rooms of Winterfell during the coldest days of winter, alongside the ladies of the northern Houses that had assembled in Winterfell in great numbers. Wylla Manderly had been one of her rather more preferred companions - despite her rather unfortunate choice in hair color, Wylla had been able to hold the most tantalizing conversations about any topic that passed her fancy. 

She misses having companions, Sansa realizes. She misses the Mormont girls talking of spear hunting and fishing, not caring who may hear. She misses discussing history with Wylla, and singing together with Eddara Tallhart. She even misses distracting Alys Karstark from her fear that her husband would fall in the war. In short, Sansa misses having a network of ladies around her that made sure that Sansa was informed about things that were happening all across the North. 

Sansa looks across the room and eyes her mother. Catelyn Stark never had any companions in the north, at least not as far back as Sansa could recall. Every lady Sansa had ever had the fortune - or misfortune - of knowing had always had companions around them. Cersei, Margaery, and even Daenerys had women around them. Only Sansa’s mother had always been alone. 

Mayhaps it would have been easier for her mother to adjust, Sansa thinks, if she had had a Northern Lady as company to teach her the ways of the North. Mother never complains, ever, but Sansa notices, and had done so lifetime ago before they left for King’s Landing. For all her love for Father, Mother never felt truly at ease in the North. 

 

_ Lady Stoneheart is silent, staring at Jon, and Sansa looks back and forth between them, thinking of a thing to say. The Lady says something, and Sansa feels the so familiar ache she always feels when the Lady tries to speak.  _

_ “Are you a deserter, bastard?” Harwin translates slowly, looking very uncomfortable as both Jon and Sansa turn to stare at him.  _

_ Jon’s jaw clenches as he turns back to the Lady again. “I died for the watch, I am released from my vows.”  _

_ “He is taking the North back with me, Mama.” Sansa adds, squeezing the Lady’s hands with a small smile in Jon’s direction. “We are going back to Winterfell.” _

_ “Winterfell.” The Lady rasps. Sansa doesn’t know if she imagines the wistful tone in her voice.  _

_ “Yes Mama.” Sansa says, softly. She looks up at the gruesome face of her mother. “We are going home, back to Winterfell.”  _

_ “Winterfell.”  _

 

Sansa shakes the memories of Lady Stoneheart out of her head. The Lady … Sansa shivers. Among all the horrible things Sansa had experienced, Lady Stoneheart had being among the worst. 

And if Sansa is going to stop the Lady from ever being brought into existence, Sansa will have to avoid being alone when she goes south. She accepts that her fate of a marriage to Joffrey is probably very much unavoidable - she learned early in her past lifetime that a marriage is the easiest way to reaffirm the bond between two families. And the Stark and Baratheon Bond needs to be reaffirmed. She cannot count on two hands how many marriage she herself had brokered in her past lifetime, so she knows that her marriage to Joffrey will be hard to avoid. And if she has to marry Joffrey, she will only do so with companions with her to keep her safer from the manipulations of a Southern Court. 

“Septa Mordane.” Sansa says, her voice as small as Sansa can make it. “In all the stories and songs, all ladies have companions. Why do we not have any?” 

The question rings rather loudly in the sudden silence of the room and Sansa sees Septa Mordane and Mother exchange a glance. 

“You have Jeyne, Sansa.” Septa Mordane tells her with a smile. “You are still young, Sansa. The older you -”

A commotion outside interrupts the Septa and Rickon runs into the room screaming. Arya is the first to abandon her needlework, running outside and Sansa is close at her heels. She can hear the clang of swords before arriving and as Sansa approaches, she can see Jon and Theon fighting. 

The expression on Jon’s face is rather familiar, cold and closed off as he mercilessly beats on Theon, who backs away with an expression of barely hidden fear. Both Robb and Ser Rodrik are yelling at Jon to stop, but he does not seem to hear any of them. 

 

_ “I swear Jon.” Theon’s voice is pitiful. “It wasn’t them! It wasn’t Bran and Rickon.”  _

_ Sansa’s heart falls. He isn’t lying, Sansa doesn’t think he would dare.  _

_ Sansa looks over at Jon to check his reaction. His fists are tightly clenched at his side, not resting on the pommel of his sword but close to. His face is blank, cold and blank.  _

_ “Where are they?” Sansa asks. All eyes snap to her. Hers do not leave Theon’s face.  _

_ “I don’t know.” Theon says, looking down at his hands.  _

_ Jon roars, sword pulled from its sheath and he leaves her side to rush for Theon.  _

_ “JON!” Sansa snaps.  _

_ “YOU KILLED THEM-” Jon roars.  _

_ “I didn’t, I swear. I swear, they live.”  _

_ “-AND YOU ARE TOO COWARDLY TO FACE WHAT YOU HAVE D-”  _

_ “Guards!” Sansa calls out. She looks at the two nearest guards, who spring into action immediately by holding Jon back.  _

_ Theon’s shoulder are raised defensively and he shivers in his seat, whimpering. Sansa ruthlessly suppresses the flash of sympathy she feels for the man as she stands. “Tell me everything.”  _

 

Theon stumbles, ending up sprawled over the floor and his sword lands several feet away from him. Jon advances towards him. 

“STOP!” 

Sansa’s command ring through the yard, echoing in the resulting silence. Jon freezes, the sword in his hand clattering to the floor. Sansa glares at Jon and infuses all the authority she has learned a lifetime ago into the next word. “Jon.” 

He comes to her side, face pale and expressionless. She can imagine very well why Jon lost his temper - lost in the memories of learning of Winterfell’s fall at the hands of the Greyjoy Raiders. Still she cannot have him lose his temper against this Theon, who has not committed a single one of the crimes of his future self or counterpart yet. 

“Jon. He is not ….” Sansa whispers. “You cannot.” 

“I know.” Jon says, stiffly. 

Taking a look at his pale face, Sansa sighs. “Leave us, Jon.” She tells him, as Queen to her closest advisor, as a sister to her brother, and as a liege lady to her loyal subject. Jon does not say anything as he walks away, shoulders hunched up defensively and spine tense and stiff. 

Sansa turns to Theon and holds her hand out for his sword. “Do not speak with Jon.” She tells him, and Theon stares at her with wide and horrified eyes. She looks at him expectantly until he gives her a single, affirmative nod. “Good.” 

Theon stares at her as if he has never seen her before and Sansa abruptly realizes that Robb, Ser Rodrik, Arya and Mother are all staring at her in the same way. She freezes in her tracks. She had lost herself in the memories of a dynamic she could no longer play out. 

Robb calls out for her, but Sansa ignores him, turning and walking towards the Godswood with swift and measured steps. She sinks against a tree in the Godswood, trying to catch her breath, trying to sort through the feelings in her head. 

Gods, she hates this. She hates being 11 years old again, being a little girl without any authority. She may never have asked for her Queenship in the past, but she knows that she had been good and fair until Daenerys Targaryen had taken her crown away again. She may have endured the lessons of ruling in the worst possible manner, but she had taken those lessons and done only good with them. People had listened to her, despite her lack of any military or tactical training. They had listened to her despite her age and her gender and they had loved her. 

Sansa stays hidden in the Godswood until the sun has set and she returns to her rooms, making sure she does not meet anyone along the way. She sits in front of the vanity, staring at herself in the mirror. Since she first woke up 2 months ago, she has changed much, but still the face in the mirror is not the one she expects to see. 

Sansa looks up as Mother knocks and enters her room. Sansa smiles at her mother’s warm and familiar face. 

“Do you have time for your poor mother to brush your hair?” Mother asks. Sansa nods. Of course she has time. She would always have time for her mother.

“Mother.” Sansa starts, voice so small it surprises even herself. “Has Papa thought about who I will have to marry yet?” 

Sansa wants to kick herself. It is not the first time she has spoken to her mother about marriage, but she has never talked about it so negatively before. With the date of Jon Arryn’s death in the past life approaching fast, the thought of her upcoming betrothal to Joffrey overcomes her often and Sansa cannot bear the thought any longer. 

Mother stops brushing for a moment, catching Sansa’s eyes in the mirror. “Where is this coming from, Sansa?” 

“Septa Mordane taught us about marriage today.” Sansa lies, unable to tell her mother the actual truth. “I do not know if I want to get married yet.” 

“And you will not.” Mother says immediately. “I only married when I was 16 and that was more than young enough. But Sansa, darling, you must know that your father will betroth you sometime. A betrothal can last for year before you actually marry, darling.” 

Sansa nods, looking back up at her mother. That was good, then maybe she had more time before having to leave the north. “Is Robb going to marry soon?” 

“No. I should not expect so.” Her Mother smiles, but it quickly falls prey to a frown. Sansa expects that she will finally ask the question truly on her mind. “Sansa, what was that with Jon today?” 

Sansa forbids herself to freeze and frowns. “What do you mean?” For once she is grateful for all the lessons in lying forced upon her in her previous life. A part of Sansa feels bad for lying to her mother, but Catelyn Stark would never believe her if SAnsa told her she had been sent back in time by the Old Gods and she was actually a 17 year old former Queen. 

“Robb said Jon would not stop.” Mother elaborates. “Why did he listen to you?” 

“I do not know, Mama.” Sansa says. It is not dishonest, she supposes. She could not say with certainty why Jon had listened to her, she only had several fairly good ideas. 

Her mother eyes her in the mirror for a moment and then sighs. “Well his attack towards Theon should not be a surprise to any of us. A bastards nature is a bastards nature, no matter by whom he was raised.” 

Sansa looks away, eyes falling on the hands in her lap. The love for her mother and her absolute faith in Jon wage in her mind. Sansa knows that her mother - Catelyn Stark is not a cruel woman. At least not when she does not happen to fear her own children’s inheritance in danger. A lifetime ago, Sansa had been her mother’s only ally in her vendetta against Jon, but now - Sansa had lived as a bastard, she had lived as the shunned daughter of a disgraced traitor, she had lived as the last daughter of a powerful house, she had ruled a land on the brink of extinction while her only family fought against an inhuman foe in the frozen lands north of the Wall and she had lived through horrors worse than imaginable by any stretch of human imagination. And she had survived it all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and we are officially in AU-territory! I am excited!
> 
> I feel like I should address the flashbacks. I am using Book!Canon since I haven't actually watched a full episode of the show since the middle of Season 5. I love the Jonsa Dynamic, and have watched their scenes on Youtube, but other than that: Book!Canon is holy here. That being said. I have no idea where GRRM is going with his books. I am not good at Meta and all the conflicting fantheories are too confusing sometimes. So the flashbacks will stay relatively vague and will be more of a tool for characterization than actually advancing the story. I hope that is alright with all of you. 
> 
> I am honestly overwhelmed with the responses to my last chapters. Every comment and every kudos is like crack to my muse, I love it. Thank you all so so so much.  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well. 
> 
> Love, sanssstark


	6. Winterfell - 298, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Direwolves And Letters.

 

Sansa laughs, letting Arya advance closer as she raises her sword in a half-hearted parry. They are alone that morning, the first time since they started than Jon could not come - Father has made him come along to a hunting party. Still Arya and Sansa decide to meet in the Godswood.

“You have to be quicker, Sansa.” Arya tells her. “Quick feet save lives.”

Sansa laughs. “Oh where did you hear that?”

Arya blushes, mumbling something. Still Sansa follows Arya's advice, trying to move quicker as Arya tries to fight against her. No matter how much Sansa tells herself to move quickly, the movement does not seem to want to come to her and Arya beats her more swiftly than Sansa would like to admit.

Sansa huffs, frustrated. She falls onto the ground to catch her breath. Her stamina is much better than it was only 3 moons turns ago and Sansa can feel the soft, stubborn baby fat leaving her cheeks with every day of training. Arya looks little different, still wiry and small, but her sister has never dealt with the stubborn softness of a girl who did not leave the castle much.

Arya stands over her as Sansa catches her breath. They still don't talk much, her and Arya, but Sansa figures that is okay. She does not know what to say to Arya, so they mostly discuss whatever thing Jon has tried to teach them.

“You are lying in mud.” Arya points out to her.

Sansa quirks an eyebrow. She is. She can feel the cold seeping through the back of her clothes, but what does it matter. She cannot wear these clothes more than twice before washing them anyhow. “I know.”

Arya pauses, waiting. “Your hair is getting muddy.”

That however does matter. Sansa's hand jumps to her hair. She does not want to take a bath before breakfast. Arya giggles, as Sansa realizes there is no mud in her hair, only a few stray bits of moss. “Nice, Arya.” Sansa scowls.

Arya sticks her tongue out at Sansa and Sansa does the same. She might feel too old for such silly games, but she is still playing her 11 year old self.

“Let us go to breakfast.” Sansa says, an eye on the risen sun above the trees. Arya nods and together they make their way back to the keep. They each slip back into their respective chambers and Sansa quickly slips into her favorite, most comfortable gown. Arya is waiting for her outside her door, and they walk towards the Great Hall in silence. This has become custom too. They walk to breakfast together and after the first week of them doing so no one remarks upon it anymore.

Before they can enter the hall, Arya is sidetracked by the sounds of a large group riding into the courtyard and Arya runs outside to see who it is.

The men are back from their hunting trip already and Bran stands in the middle of the courtyard a giant smile on his face. In his hands a little wolf is squirming.

Sansa's head snaps up and she scans the courtyard for Jon's familiar face. From the expression on Jon’s face, he has also not counted on time passing so quickly. Hee holds Ghost in his hands with a wide eyed expression. If they have already found the Direwolves, Jon Arryn should be dead in the south and the Lannisters would be coming to Winterfell in only 6 weeks time.

Has time truly passed that quickly?

It is Jory who hands her her own little pup and Sansa smiles at him. She holds her own pup in her hands as Father gives the familiar speech of caring for the pups and being responsible and Sansa tunes out the words as she marvels again at how small her little pup is.

A lifetime ago, Lady had been the smallest, the most well-behaved and the sweetest of all the direwolf puppies. Sansa wonders if this wolf would be different in this lifetime, just as she was. For a moment she wonders if she should name this one differently, but then the pup whines, struggling in her grip and Sansa smiles. No, this one was a Lady as well. And Sansa will do this Lady better than she had the last one.

She wonders if she would ever have the same bond to Lady as Rickon and Jon had to their own wolves in a past lifetime. She had had the dreams in the later days of the war - of flying high above Winterfell and hunting down mice as prey, making up with the taste of bloody meat in her mouth and freedom in her heart - but her own warging had never been deliberate as Rickon or Jon’s.

Sansa looks up and watches her siblings and their wolves. Robb is pretending to be grown up, as if the childish grin on his face is not the exact same one replicated on Bran's. They are both playing with their puppies and Sansa smiles as Grey Wind bites at Robb's fingers, which he just manages to get away from the sharp teeth in time.

Arya too seems very happy with her own puppy. Nymeria squirms in her hands and when Arya sets her on the ground, the puppy runs away with Arya chasing after her.

Rickon seems a little afraid of his own wolf, clutching their mother's leg as Shaggydog wanders aimlessly closer to him. It is not a big surprise that Rickon is scared, Sansa thinks, considering that the pup is nearly as big as Rickon is.

Sansa looks up at her mother's face. Catelyn watches all of them with just enough apprehension in her expression that Sansa is sure that her mother will come around eventually. And Sansa understands her mother's apprehension. These pups would grow to be as tall as a small horse, but a small horse could not tear a man apart with a single bite.

 

_ The shout is the only thing that warns Sansa before she is almost run over by Jon's wolf. She had last seen Ghost when he was just a little puppy, no taller than Sansa's knee, but now Ghost stands as tall as her. His face is at the same height as her own and Sansa stops herself from fleeing. _

_ She was a Stark of Winterfell and the Direwolves were the sigil of her house. Ghost would not do anything to her. _

“ _ Hello Ghost.” Sansa raises a hand slowly, letting Ghost smell it before gently placing it at the side of his neck and petting him. Ghost nuzzles at her shoulder and she smiles. _

 

If Lady ever grew to be as big as Ghost … Sansa could hardly finish the thought. She has never thought of how she would save their family, with Lady by her side. While Ghost had been a constant companion of Jon's, Sansa could not imagine the Southern Court allowing her, or Arya, to keep their wolves by their side in the Red Keep.

Sansa excuses herself from the courtyard, hurrying up to her chambers holding Lady tightly. As she suspected, Jon is quick to follow her and they both flinch as the door to her chambers fall shut.

“How could we have ...” Sansa exhales shakily as she looks at Jon. “How can the direwolves ...”

“Do you think Jon Arryn is dead?”

“Gods, I hope not.” Sansa breathes.

Jon nods. “Have we … What are we going to...”

“We still have another 6 weeks at least before the Court arrives.”

They had completely stopped planning after Sansa's letter to Jon Arryn, content to see that gamble play out while thinking they had more time than they actually had. Sansa curses herself for not insisting on doing more, thinking or planning or … oh she doesn't know.

She feels out of her depth. Planning a better future in a world where no one does what she expects of them feels as though she is playing 3d cyvasse with game pieces that move of their own free will.

“Sansa...” Jon halts. “I am not going to go to the Wall.”

Sansa freezes, looking at Jon and trying not to smile at him. She knows that it is the thing Jon struggles with the most. Does he stay with them, his family, or does he go north. She wants desperately for him to stay with them, but his sense of duty towards the Night's Watch is also part of what makes Jon Jon. 

“You are staying here?”

“I went to Father,”

“You went to Father?” She interrupts him, incredulously.

Jon glowers at her. “Yes, I went to Father and asked him what his plans for me are.”

Sansa pauses. She has never thought of it like that before. “What did he say?” She asks quietly.

“He hopes I will be a part of Robb's household.”

“He hopes?” Sansa repeats.

Jon's smile is just bitter enough to be painful. “He hopes.”

“Jon-”

“It must have been nice for him, that I just went to the Wall the last time around.” Jon's voice is bitter. “Must have solved a great many problems.”

“Jon-”

 

“ _ Why did he not tell me?” Jon asks. Sansa sits at the edge of his cot and watches him pace up and down the small tent, unable to say anything that would comfort him. “I just do not understand. Why did he not tell anyone? Why lie?” _

“ _ Maybe he was trying to protec-” _

“ _ Protect?” The tone in Jon's voice is mocking and mean. “How does that fucking protect me? Why lie to me about being my fucking father?” _

_ He falls silent after that outburst and Sansa doesn't know if the shame on his face is from the curse or the tone of his voice. _

“ _ The King hated the Targaryens. Do you know what the Lannister's did to Prince Rhaegar's wife and children?” Sansa asks him softly. “They were slaughtered. Father only wanted to protect you.” _

_ Jon stops his pacing and looks at her. The grief on his face takes her breath away. “I don't want to be … I only ever wanted to be Ned Stark's son. And now that has been taken away from me as well.” _

“ _ Jon-” _

 

“Sansa-” Jon mocks in the same tone of voice.

The unspoken truth of Jon's mother hangs over them in that moment and Jon looks away from her, his face tense and unhappy. She wonders how much pity is reflected on her face, and she tries desperately to show less of it. They have never had a true conversation about it, not since they first found out. Sansa desperately wants to have one, but it isn't her life that they would acknowledge to be completely false so she doesn't push him.

She looks away, to the two puppies playing on her bed, and decides to not call Jon out. “Are you naming him Ghost?”

“Yes.” Jon says shortly, though his eyes do soften when he looks over at his wolf. “I missed him.”

“I missed him too.” Sansa admits.

They stay silent for a moment. “I am not going to the wall. I am going to be part of Robb's household, or maybe yours or Arya's once you marry. I do not care of what Father says.”

Sansa eyes him, her bastard half-brother-cousin, and nods. “You'll be a good Master-At-Arms.”

*

They all meet in the kitchen that afternoon to feed their pups. Lady is sleeping in Sansa's hands as the others feed their pups with warmed goat's milk.

“Mine is Nymeria.” Arya proclaims, swinging an imaginary sword. “She will be fierce and good like Queen Nymeria.”

Robb laughs at her, but when he proclaims to name his wolf “Grey Wind” Arya firmly tells him that Nymeria is a much better name. Sansa cannot pretend that she disagrees.

“What are you naming yours Sansa?” Robb asks.

Sansa looks down at the sleeping pup in her arms, Lady is whining in her sleep, kicking out against something in her dreams and Sansa smiles softly. “Lady.”

Sansa pretends not to see Robb roll his eyes and allows herself to gently trace Lady's soft features.

“Bran?”

“I don't know.” Bran says. He looks at his wolf. It would take another while for him to name the wolf if Sansa remembers correctly. Sansa had only learned of the wolf's name when Rickon had told her years later.

“Which names are you thinking?” Sansa prompts him gently.

“I don't know. None sound right.” Bran scowls, though his expression softens when he looks down at his puppy.

Lady wakes up and Sansa is content to let her siblings talk among each other as she carefully feeds little Lady. Lady whines as she struggles to get closer to Sansa and Sansa smiles as Lady licks at her face in response. She is already so in love with her little wolf, and she cannot wait for Lady to grow up. As she looks up, Jon smiles at her and she knows that he feels the exact same way.

She sets down Lady and her pup tumbles into the middle of their Stark-made circle to play with the other puppies. Sansa smiles as Lady makes a beeline towards Grey Wind and starts bowling him over.

“We have to train them proper, Father said, or they will be taken away again.” Robb says into the room. “I spoke with Maester Luwin and he said wolves are not raised the same as dogs. We need to -”

Sansa tunes him out then, sure that Lady will listen to her no matter what. Besides, her mind is somewhere else entirely. She can still remember this from her past life. After their little meeting in the kitchen, Mother and Father had called them all to Father's solar to announce King Robert and his Court were coming North. Sansa had been all giddy then, but she will not be now.

Jon leans over to her. “Do you think Grey Wind will be the last to be house trained?” He whispers in her ear. Robb, who is so diligently explaining how to train the wolves, looks over at them both as Sansa lets out a peal of laughter.

“What is so funny?” He asks, eyeing her and Jon with confusion.

“Not a thing, Robb.” Jon tells him with a grin.

Robb scowls at the two of them, but Sansa gives him her best face of innocence and Robb waits for a beat or two before continuing his explanation.

They all stay in the kitchen for ages, watching the wolves play together and chatting. Sansa's heart flips as Old Nan comes to fetch them for dinner, sure that this will be it. Jon sticks close to her as they make their way towards the Great Keep for dinner and Sansa feels herself growing tenser with every step she takes.

Despite all her tenseness, dinner happens like it does every other night. Mother tells them to take care of the wolves, and explains again how these were wild creatures with needed training. Father sits at the head of the table, talking with Jory Cassel. There is none of the grief Sansa would expect if Father had just lost his foster father.

She sleeps restlessly that night, and does not say a word the next morning as she waits for the dreaded announcement. It does not come. 

With every passing moment and day where Jon Arryn's death is not announced, Sansa relaxes and a week later Sansa catches herself not thinking of Jon Arryn for a single time that day. 

Another week passes, but the letter from the south announcing Jon Arryn's death never comes.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was not supposed to have a Sister-Bonding Session, but then S7E6 was aired and I got angry bc those are not Arya and Sansa. Oh well, the show does what the show will do. 
> 
> Anyways. This is, as you can probably tell, the start of a whole brand new world and I am so excited to show you where I am going next. As for Jon Arryn's Non-Death: I have actually thought about the implications of that, and more on that in the next chapters. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed and I am super excited over every single kudos&review! All the responses to this little brainchild of mine have been absolutely overwhelming!  
> Love, sanssstark


	7. Winterfell - 298, Pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Harvest Feasts And Declerations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay. Please enjoy.

The end of summer sneaks up on Sansa, until suddenly the fallen snows of the night no longer melt during the day and the feeling of an approaching winter can no longer be wished away. Mother orders a new set of dresses and smallclothes for them all, made of fine, warm wool and even warmer furs.

Last time, Sansa had been in the south throughout the entire duration of autumn. It had been winter already when Sansa had finally returned north, so it made her feel strangely excited to experience something new.

Father calls for the Harvest Feast and preparations for it run high. The Harvest Feast is a wonderful occasion, both joyous and political at once. Every major, and quite a few minor, lords arrive at Winterfell and with them Sansa's excitement rises. It is the first Harvest Feast she can remember, during the last one she had been barely a babe and far too young for her memories of it to remain. Now, she will remember it all and Sansa has great plans for her time at the feast.

When the day finally comes, Sansa dresses carefully in the fine, pale gray dress she had made herself and finished just a fortnight earlier, and combs her long hair until it shines brightly. She braids a crown alongside the top of her head and then pinches her cheeks until they are slightly red.

Arya laughs at her as she does so, but that laughter quickly stops when Sansa forces her sister into the chair and does the same to her. Arya struggles less than Sansa would have believed, and when Sansa is done her sister looks almost like the lady Arya so desperately does not want to be.

“Oh girls you-” Mother stops in her tracks as she sees both Arya and Sansa ready already. Mother is finely dressed as well, a dress of gray and blue that is clearly Tully inspired. It suits Mother well and when Sansa says as much, Catelyn Stark looks at Sansa fondly. “You both look very nice as well.”

Sansa smiles and thanks her mother, and nudges Arya to do the same. Even Arya seems excited as they walk towards the Great Keep. She keeps bouncing on the toes of her feet and though the movement unravels the carefully made braid, Arya's excitement is infection.

Sansa is grinning broadly by the time they see the boys. Her brothers are wearing fine clothes as well, all dressed in dark gray doublets lined with furs and embroidered with roaring direwolves. They all look truly northern, despite their coloring and Sansa wonders if that is Mother's intention. It probably is.

“You look very pretty.” Robb tells her as they line up to enter the hall. “I like the dress.”

It is sweet. Sansa smiles at her big brother and runs a hand through Robb's hair to part it properly. “You look very handsome as well.”

Robb holds out his arm and Sansa slides her own arm through his. They must make a pretty picture, she thinks. She is a little taller than Robb, having gone through a massive growth spurt during the past few weeks much to the boys dismay. Together they both tower over the rest of their siblings.

Eventually, their whole procession gets moving. Father and Mother upfront are followed directly by Robb and Sansa. The Great Keep erupts in chants of “STARK!”, “Winterfell!” and “North!” alike and Sansa resists the urge to duck at the attention on her and her entire family. The Keep is filled to the brim with Northerners, from the highest lords to the lower born all sitting beside each other and already filled with ale.

Father says the whole event is ostentatious but necessary. Let the Starks show that they are prepared for winter and can feed the entire north if need be. Sansa doubted anyone truly believes that, but it is a gesture she can understand. The Starks offer protection, the lords offer obedience. It is a millennia old idea that will stand for millennia more. Still it is a joyous occasion above all else, a last hurrah of summer before winter truly arrives, where not even the most hardened northman can predict what happens.

Sansa shudders as she thinks of the coming winter, and Robb looks over at her with concern in his eyes. “They are so ...” She whispers to him, and understanding fills Robb's eyes.

“Remarkably eager.” Robb finishes her sentence for her. Sansa nods. That is it. She should be happy, Sansa supposes, that her family's bannermen are so eager, but Sansa also remembers a life where many of them had abandoned the Starks.

Robb looks around the room and exhales shakily. Sansa looks over at her eldest brother and slips her hand into his. “You will make a fine Lord.” She tells him softly. “Besides, Father still has many years in him.”

Robb squeezes her hand and smiles. “You will make a fine Lady as well, sister dearest.”

They pass Jon – the short journey to their seats going very slowly as Father pauses to shake hands with many lords – and Sansa nudges Robb as they do. Jon looks up at them, an easy smile on his face. He has long accepted he would not sit with them today and, unlike the last time Mother had sidelined Jon at a large feast, Jon is still sober.

It takes a few more moments until they reach their seats and Sansa is seated beside Arya and Robb. Father stands up as soon as everyone is settled and he overlooks the hall. It falls silent in a few moment, all the bannermen looking up at Father expectantly.

He thanks them for coming and thanks the gods for a bountiful harvest and the long summer. Someone, Sansa thinks it is one of the Umbers, starts chanting “Stark!” again, and it takes a while for the Keep to quiet down again.

“I was 6 years old when my father hosted the first Harvest Feast during my own lifetime.” Father starts. “I have since seen 4 more. The last time we were all assembled here was nearly 12 years ago. Then, my son and heir Robb was only a toddler and we had just won a long war. Today, I am pleased to announce that my son Robb will marry Lady Meera Reed of Greywater Watch.”

It is not a surprise to Sansa. Father had announced the news to the family about a fortnight ago. Then it had come as a huge surprise to Sansa. She had never met Meera Reed a lifetime ago, had only heard of her in what little Rickon told of their time apart, and so she could not tell what kind of Lady or wife Meera Reed would be. The announcement of the betrothal had however changed some of the plans Sansa and Jon had made. Nothing major, but it had eliminated the possibility of Robb marrying one of the Frey girls should the day come that the Northern Troops had to cross the Twins.

Now, Robb ducks his head blushing slightly at all the attention on him. Sansa looks around the room until she spots the Reeds, where a pretty, curly haired brunette is flushed. She needs to build up a thick skin quickly, Sansa thinks rather uncharitably, if she wants to survive as Lady of Winterfell.

Father finishes the toast then, preaching northern solidarity against the coming winter. The Lords, even those disappointed they could not marry their daughters to Robb, nod in agreement. Sansa marvels at her father's ability to calm any unhappy minds. She wonders if it is a remainder of becoming Lord in the middle of a war that makes her father such a good man during a crisis. It would not surprise Sansa much.

The Bannermen erupt into another round of “Winterfell” as Father sits back down. The chant holds on until every table is groaning under the weight of food and every cup is filled with ale or wine.

Yes, Sansa thinks, father was right. The whole display is ostentatious, but it is also impressive. Sansa knows of the status of their coffers and their supplies – she had been helping Mother with some of her duties for the past few months – and so she knows that what is being presented tonight will barely even make a dent.

“To a bountiful harvest!” Father calls.

“TO A BOUNTIFUL HARVEST!” The Keep echoes in one.

 

*

 

The dancing part of the feast has long started when Sansa leaves her chair and approaches Meera Reed, whose surprise delights Sansa.

“It will be nice to have another girl in this castle.” Sansa tells Meera Reed conspiratorially, as she sits down beside the older girl. “It only have my sister Arya, and my friends Jeyne and Beth to speak to at this moment. It will be nice to speak to another lady.”

Meera smiles. “I am glad to hear that, my lady.”

“Oh please, do call me Sansa.” Sansa corrects her immediately. “We are to be sisters after all.”

Meera's smile is slow and steady, but her eyes dart over to her companion. Sansa follows her look at a younger boy, maybe Sansa's own age, with vibrant green eyes. There is enough resemblance between Meera and the boy for Sansa to guess that this might be Jojen Reed, heir to Greywater Watch and Meera's younger brother. Jojen Reed eyes her and Sansa gets the unwelcome feeling that Jojen Reed is reading her soul.

“Thank you, my l- Sansa.” Meera says.

Sansa smiles softly at the slip and continues to ask Meera about her hobbies and her childhood. She tries to get to know her to-be-goodsister better, though at times she gets the impression Meera is not telling Sansa everything. It rather feels as though Meera has built up a wall.

“It will be a joy to call you sister, Meera.” Sansa says after a few minutes of talking. “You must excuse me.”

Meera looks after her as Sansa hurries back over to where Robb is sitting. Robb is joking with Theon, and they both fall guiltily silent as Sansa approaches. “You should ask your betrothed for a dance, dearest brother.”

“Why?” Robb wrinkles his nose and looks over to the Reed siblings with an expression of barely hidden annoyance.

“You will marry Meera no matter what happens, Robb. Why not get to know her before your wedding night?” Sansa sighs as her brother makes another face. “You are a coward, Robb Stark. You just need to dance with her for a few songs.”

Theon laughs at that and he gets up, shaking out his shoulders. “Look Robb, this is how you ask.” He holds out a hand for Sansa to take and gives a little bow. “Lady Sansa. Will you do me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

“I would be honored, Lord Greyjoy.” Sansa takes Theon's hand and sends one last, challenging look at Robb.

Theon is a very good dancer. He has always been and as his dance lessons have been the same as Sansa's, they are evenly matched. Sansa finds herself grinning as Theon spins her around, faster and faster until the Keep seems to blur in front of her eyes. Robb at least finds the courage to ask Meera for a dance, and so they join Sansa and Theon on the dance floor eventually. Meera catches Sansa's eye and by her smile, Sansa knows she was right to force Robb into asking.

In next moment, Theon turns and Sansa spins with a laugh. “You look happy, Sansa.” Theon tells her. It is the gentle tone of his voice that startles Sansa enough that she looks at him. He attempts to clarify. “It is only, you were so sad recently. It is wonderful to see you so happy.”

“I am happy.” Sansa tells him, because it is true. She is happy. She is happy because the war – or at least the start of it has been averted. Jon and her had gambled with the letter to Jon Arryn, but that gamble has paid off. At this time in her last life, Father had already been in chains and Robb had called the banners.

Theon looks over at Robb and Meera, who are dancing both with awkward expressions on their faces. “You know once, I had dreamed to marry you.” Theon tells her. He is in his cups, Sansa realizes. Theon would never actually voice any dream of that kind to her face if he were sober.

“Once?” Sansa teases with a small smile.

Theon eyes her. “You changed, Sansa. You are not …” His pause grows longer. “You have changed. You grew up in a few weeks. You would never agree to marry me.”

Sansa sighs. “Oh Theon.”

“You do not have to lie, Sansa.” Theon does not seem upset. He smiles at her and it is a warmer smile than she would expect considering what they are discussing. “One day, you will have to tell me what made you grow up.”

“One day.” Sansa promises. She abruptly becomes aware that they have stopped dancing, both standing in the middle of the dancing floor not making a move.

Robb is by her side in moments and he glowers at Theon. “Let's dance, sister.” Robb whisks her away, leaving Theon standing and Sansa feels suddenly and abruptly bad for Theon. He grew up with them, but he would never be one of them and they would all never completely trust him. It was a difficult position to be in.

“What did he say to you?” Robb asks her as he spins her around slowly.

“We were just talking, Robb.”

“You both looked upset.”

Did they really? Sansa does not feel upset, but she figures Robb knows her face well enough. “I am not upset, Robb. I swear to the Gods.”

“Good.” Robb says fiercely. “I will kill any man who makes you upset.”

“That is sweet.” Sansa says with a rather unladylike snort.

Robb looks at her seriously. “I am not jesting, Sansa.”

I know, Sansa thinks as she looks at her brother's earnest face. She believes that he believes it now, that he would do anything for his sisters, for his family. But Sansa also knows that in war, anything can be so different and so Robb cannot truly make that promise without someday breaking it. She squeezes his hand and smiles softly.

Robb grins back and spins her around. They dance for 2 more songs, before she finds herself dancing with Smalljon Umber, then Eddard Karstark and Jory Cassel.

She is just laughing with Artos Flint, who teases her horribly, when Jojen Reed interrupts. “May I have this dance, Lady Stark?”

Jojen Reed is not a dancer as agile as Theon or Robb, but he dances better than Smalljon, whose size had made dancing rather difficult.

“Lord Jojen, will you be staying at Winterfell with your sister?” Sansa asks him.

Jojen looks at her. His gaze is inquisitive and the startling green of his eyes make Sansa feel as though he were peering into her soul. “For a few weeks, I believe.”

“I believe Meera will enjoy Winterfell.” Sansa says.

“Perhaps.” Jojen says. He looks at her. “Where are your direwolves? I heard the Starks had direwolves.”

Sansa is briefly taken aback at the borderline rudeness of his question. “They are outside in the kennel.” Sansa tells him nevertheless. “They are growing rather large and are not fond of loud noises besides. We thought it better for them outside.”

“Direwolf pets.” Jojen muses. “That has not happened since the days of old. I wonder if it is a Good or Bad omen.”

“The Direwolves are a part of House Stark.” Sansa tells him shortly. “They belong with us.”

Jojen eyes her. “Your eyes have seen much.” He says suddenly. “Too much for an 11 year old Lady.”

Sansa does not know how to respond. “I am sure my eyes have seen just as much as an 11 year old should have.” Sansa says, tone bordering on unfriendly.

“Something has changed, here at Winterfell. Things are not as they are supposed to be.”

His words frighten Sansa. How does he know? How can it be that someone knows, does he know? Jon and her have been so careful. “I am not sure what you mean, Lord Jojen. Winterfell is the same as it has ever been.”

“I meant no offense, Lady Sansa.”

“No offense has been taken, Lord Jojen.” Sansa says icily. “Pardon me. I have another matter to attend to.” She curtsies and leaves him standing on the dance floor.

 

*

 

“And then he said things were not as they are supposed to be.” Sansa continues, frustrated. She is telling Jon of what has just happened with Jojen Reed, still startled and anxious.

Jon looks at her. “Are you sure that is what he said?”

“Yes!” Sansa's voice is loud, too loud and she looks around guiltily. They are still alone in the courtyard near the kennel. Sansa had taken Jon by the arm after leaving Jojen Reed on the dancing floor and had made him come outside with her.

Jon raises his arms, hands spread in a peaceful gesture. “Alright, alright. No need to shout at me.”

“Sorry.” Sansa sighs. “I just do not like it. How can he tell?”

“I do not know.” Jon says. “Mayhaps it was an innocent comment. Perhaps he meant nothing by it.”

“It is only-” Sansa sighs, trying to gather her thoughts. “We know that Meera and Jojen Reed were with Bran and Rickon when they went North last time. I just cannot help but feel like we are missing something.”

“We will keep a close eye on the Reed's these coming weeks.” Jon suggests. “Just to make sure ...”

But make sure what, Sansa wonders. Even if Jojen had unnerved her, she still did not know what she thought was wrong. Mayhaps she is overthinking this. Every instinct in her mind tells Sansa she is not, but her instinct have proved wrong before.

She opens the kennel door and braces herself as all of the wolves run to her immediately. Sansa buries her hand in Lady's fine coat and exhales shakily. Lady is as tall as Sansa's waist already, though she is still the smallest of the litter. Even Ghost is taller than Lady by now, but Lady can still run as fast as Greywind and howl as fiercely as Shaggy.

Sansa hasn't had any wolf dreams yet, though she is certain that all of her siblings have. It is disheartening to think that even though she and Lady spend so much time together, Sansa still does not have the same bond to her as her siblings have. Mayhaps she is too much of a Tully for wolf dreams, though every time she voices that thought to Jon he tries to dissuade her of that idea.

Lady nuzzles her hand and Sansa smiles fondly at her.

“We should probably get back inside before someone wonders where you are.” Jon tells her. He runs a hand over Lady's back. “Come on, Sans.”

Jon escorts her back to the keep and as they slip back inside, Sansa catches her father's eye. He looks surprised to see the two of them together, but when Sansa waves, he waves back. Jon ducks his head uncomfortably when a few heads spin to look at the two of them and Sansa quickly moves forward to rejoin Arya at her seat.

Arya is sitting, watching the people on the dancing floor and Sansa looks over at Jon, eyebrows raised. He nods, and approaches Arya with a grin. “A dance, milady?”

Arya startles, looking up and her scowl transforms into a small smile. Sansa watches fondly, as Jon makes silly faces at Arya until Arya can barely stand from laughing. Sansa looks up at her father in the high chair. He too looks so pleased as he looks over the hall. Sansa watches her her mother takes father's hand, and they smile at each other. She feels a rush of love for all of them. For her family, for her family's bannermen and for the entire North.

She rests at the table, content to only watching. She looks all over the hall, at Robb sitting at Meera Reed's side, at Bran playing with a boy his age Sansa does not recognize. She looks for the girls she knows from her past lifetime – Wylla Manderly, who dances with Smalljon Umber. Eddara Tallhart, who sits at her brother's side with a bored expression on her face.

She looks over the hall again, and the messenger catches her attention immediately. He looks out of place, a Southerner and not dressed for the coming winter besides, and he hurries through the full Keep quickly until he reaches Father's seat.

Sansa sits upright, looking over Arya's lowered head as she watches Father's brow furrow and face fall. Oh no. Sansa's heart races, and her hand shakes as she reaches for the goblet of wine in front of her. This was it. This was all she had been dreading for over 8 moons. What were the odds, Sansa thinks, that this would happen now during the Harvest Feast when all of the Northern Lords or their sons were assembled at Winterfell. She has been so happy these past days, she should have known something would happen to make her regret that happiness.

Father whispers to Mother and Sansa watches her Mother's face carefully. Catelyn Stark's face does not betray the grief Sansa would expect if Jon Arryn had died, but she also does not seem to have gotten good news. Mother rather looks worried and as Father looks across the Great Hall, Sansa swears his eyes pause when he looks at the eldest Mormont daughter. Dacey, Sansa thinks her name is. The heir to Bear's Island, niece of Jeor Mormont and – oh. It might be the wall, and if something is happening at the wall … she looks over at Jon.

Jon, for all his definite resolve to stay at Winterfell with his family, is still plagued with guilt he is not at the wall, working with his former brothers in arm. His guilt is evident in every silence whenever they speak of the wall, and his grimace every time Sansa catches him thinking of his former brothers. If something happened at the wall, Jon will surely feel even more guilt. Now, however, he dances with Arya still, unaware of anything that may be happening.

She looks back up to her parents. Mother is gone from her seat. As Sansa looks around, she spots her Mother speaking to Dacey Mormont. At the same time her father is speaking to Maester Luwin, and as she watches, he stands up and waits. It is still impressive for Sansa how quickly the Hall falls silent. Everyone looks up to Father, expectant.

Father visibly takes a deep breath. “I have just received word that Lord Commander Jeor Mormont of the Night's Watch died in an attack a fortnight ago.”

His next words are drowned out by the loud murmuring in the hall. Jeor Mormont had been one of them once, a Lord of the North, before going to the Night's Watch.

“Who'as won the Election?” A man Sansa does not recognize calls out loudly, cutting through the talk. It is silence again.

“Mine own brother Benjen Stark has won the election against Bowen Marsh.” Father announces and Sansa feels a jolt of happy surprise. She had never … It is good, she thinks, if Uncle Benjen is Lord Commander. The mood in the Hall reads as happy as well. Lots of smiles, and halfhearted congratulations go around. Mayhaps it is the fact, Sansa thinks, that a Northman won. Northerners would rather see a Northerner who knows of the value of the wall lead the wall than a Southerner who had gone to the wall because of some long bygone scandal or such.

“Lord Commander Stark has written of tens of thousands of Wildlings assembling North of the Wall. A King has arisen beyond the wall, and the Lord Commander asks for Northern Assistance in defeating him.”

Sansa holds her breath.

“I have agreed. We will march for the wall in ten days time.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bastard to write. Nothing was cooperating, and what you see before you today is the result of a month of writing, 5 rewrites and about 10.000 written words I shall not be using after all. Damn you, you uncooperative muse.  
> No, but seriously. I apologize for the delay. It will probably happen again, if I am to be honest with myself and with you guys.  
> Thank you all for your patience.  
> with love,  
> sanssstark


	8. Letters - 299 AL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Ice And Snow And War.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always wanted to write a whole epistolary novel, but for now a chapter will have to do!

_ To the most beloved sister; Sansa Stark, from the wandering Heir; Robb Stark: _

We have passed the Long Lake and have been met by the Umber forces. Suddenly our force has nearly doubled. By now, I can no longer address even the generals with their true name, but Father says that is to be expected. Still, I have made a point of speaking to every houses son or cousin or representative and according to Jon, Father says I am doing well. I must admit I am little afraid of being in my first battle, but Greatjon Umber has been hosting sparring sessions whenever there is time. He is so large, it is very different sparring with him than it usually is while sparring with Jon or Theon.

How is Theon? I have asked Father why Theon could not join us, but Father only evaded my question. Do you think Theon did not want to join us? Can you please keep an eye on him? He does get rather moody sometimes.

Oh, if you would, tell Arya that there are women who have joined our forces. Surely she would like to hear of it. I think there are about a half dozen or so, and one of them spars with Greatjon every day. I think Father isn't so pleased, especially since we will stop at the Wall, but he has not said a word.

Apparently I am being called by Father, and since I do not have anymore to say today, I bid you a farewell my most beloved sister,

**Robb Stark**

  
  


*

  
  


_ To Robb Stark, from Sansa Stark: _

Theon, as far as I can tell, is doing well. I asked Mother, and she said Father did not wish Theon to join you in the North. He is still a hostage for his father's good behavior. Should something happen to Theon, who knows how Lord Greyjoy would react. Please do not tell Father I told you this, I think he wants you to know this by yourself. Robb, you cannot forget: Theon is not our ward, or your friend. He is a hostage of the Stark family. I know you are fond of him, but that does not change his position.

I have told Arya about the women in your force, and I wish I had not. I believe she is a few weeks away from taking a training sword and riding after you. Mother, of course, was very much unhappy I even put such ideas into her head, and I believe fully that she blames you for telling me. I apologize.

I hope you are doing well, and give my love to Jon and Father.

**Sansa Stark**

  
  


*

  
  


_ To the most incapable of writing, Robb Stark, from the most impatient, Sansa Stark: _

Mine own dearest brother, I do believe I had asked you to keep me updated on the status of your campaign. You know as well as I do that I cannot expect a concise report from Jon, so please write me. You have promised, and I hold you to that promise.

With love and best wishes towards your good health,

**Sansa Stark**

  
  


*

  
  


_ To the most beloved sister, Lady Sansa Stark, who is hopefully warm and safe in her bedchamber in the 3 _ _ rd _ _ floor of Winterfell's warmest tower, writes the most annoyed brother, Lord Robb Stark, who is freezing his chilled buttox in the snows of the far north: _

I write to you from Castle Black. We arrived here 2 nights ago and while I am sure the Wall must seem wonderful to some others, I have never seen such a retched place. Please do not take my dislike for contempt towards the fine men guarding our kingdom, however it is hard to gather any positive feelings towards a place that so persistently smells of piss and sick. Our brother, who is looking over my shoulder as I write, has informed me I should not address a lady as yourself thus, but I feel that you, mine most beloved sister, will understand.

In all seriousness, Sansa, I hope we shall resolve this entire matter quickly. Father grows more anxious every day. I get awoken by the loudness of his teeth grinding in the night. We are leaving for beyond the wall in 2 days time and Jon seems strangely excited. I am not sure what he expects to find in that frozen wasteland. Perhaps it is a woman that will finally give him the time of da -

Again, Jon has decided to edit this before I could send it, so blame him for any illegibility.

The last days of our march passed in relative peace. Several members of the mountain clans joined our fight along the march and I must say, Sansa, I have rarely seen such strange fellows. I believe we at Winterfell are rather un-northern besides, as much as that pains me to say. You should see some of the things the folk are wearing so far north. I am including a sketch Harry Karstark has made of the Mountain Clans, so you can see for yourself. Perhaps you can fashion a dress in similar fashion for me when I come home. As the heir to Winterfell and the North I must adapt to the style of clothing a part of my kingdom wears.

Jon has just interjected to tell me, to tell you, that the Mountain Clans wear the same as the Free Folk … I suppose he means the Wildlings, though how on planetos he knows how the wildlings dress shall forever be a mystery for you and me.

The Steward is calling for dinner, another tantalizing meal of unflavored gruel accompanied with bitterly sour ale, so I bid you goodbye until next time, mine most beloved sister.

**Robb Stark**

P.S.: Robb is mostly exaggerating, but he is truthful about one thing. Father is anxious. I fear that this war will not be won so easily. Take care.  **Jon Snow** .

  
  


*

  
  


_ To my brother, Robb Stark, from your beloved sister, Sansa Stark: _

I do pray you were rather in your cups when you penned that last letter. I have not shown Mother that letter, be glad she did not open it before handing it off to me. Still I beg of you to be rather more lord like in your word choice. I do want to share these letters with the ladies staying at Winterfell.

Speaking of Ladies, I believe Mother wishes to set your marriage to Meera Reed to a week after you return from the North. She is still very upset Father did not make you marry Meera before you left. Meera herself, I think, is rather glad for it, but still Robb, I hope you do not decide to die in the North. Mother would be very irate.

I expect you are beyond the wall already, so I do not expect a response. Still, should anything major develop, please write me as swiftly as possible. Can you please hand this off to Jon now?

Dear Jon: please make sure that Robb does not forget to write me. And you be careful with your harebrained, stupid scheme. And believe me, I have not forgotten about your lack of letters. There shall be retribution when you come home.

With all the love in the world,

**Sansa Stark.**

  
  


*

  
  


_ To Sansa Stark, from Robb Stark: _

The Lands beyond the Wall are a horribly dreary. We must have marched a hundred miles at least, but you would not be able to tell as every tree and every rock looks the same covered in snow. We passed the house of a Wildling who works with the Night's Watch a few days ago. The Wildling, Craster, was the only man in a house filled with women, but he would not let us stay for a warm bath. Father did not seem too happy, but I don't suppose he could expect Craster to allow over 3.000 men to spend a night at his house.

Oh Sansa, you would hate it here. I almost do.

At least the wolves are happy, I think. We rarely see them, and when we do they contribute greatly to our meat supply. Jon says they are home, here, north of the wall, but I find that thought rather horrible. Are we taking them away from their home by keeping them at Winterfell?

Has Mother truly made plans to marry me to Meera already? I asked Father but he said that Mother would make the plans. He would neither tell her to stop or continue. I do not suppose you could ask Mother to wait at least another half year before the marriage? Also, I find it rather cruel that you think Mother would only be upset if I die because of a failed marriage betrothal. Surely she would also miss the cheap labor of a son to tuck her other children into bed.

Do not bother with a response, I doubt the Raven could find us in this dreary place. I love you, and best wishes from Father and Jon.

**Robb Stark**

  
  


*

  
  


_ To Sansa Stark, from Jon Snow: _

I am sorry for the lack of letters. Everything I wanted to write was already in Robb's letters or Father's letters to Lady Catelyn. I am sorry and I am sure your retribution will be swift and hard.

We have left Castle Black and I cannot tell you how many memories I am having to suppress. Nothing has changed, but everything is different. It hurts sometimes, in my brain, to think of all the differences, but I suppose you know that as well.

I have been discussing a lot of strategy with Robb and Father and I think I understand why Robb won so many battles a lifetime ago. He is truly a brilliant tactician. We should tell him. Or not. Well, we should … we are going to need Robb. He is smarter than I am.

Father has been busy speaking with the Lords, I think they are making plans about what shall happen if the Wall is breached. I want to tell him to let the Free Folk through, but I am certain they would laugh me out of the room.

Still, I cannot think of a worse thing than killing all of the Wildlings. They would only feed the Others already huge army. We cannot deal with another Hardhome, not again. I cannot deal with something like that again. I just do not know how to convince Father.

**Jon**

 

*

  
  


_ To Sansa Stark, from Jon Snow: _

I believe I have an idea how to convince Father not to kill all of the Free Folk. I am glad Robb and I convinced Father to let us bring Greywind and Ghost, since I think we should capture a wight and show Father. Perhaps then he will talk with the Free Folk before killing them. Gods help me.

**Jon**

  
  


*

  
  


_ To Jon Snow, from Sansa Stark: _

That was not a letter JON! What do you mean you want to capture a White Walker? Please do not get yourself killed during this campaign. If you get killed, I will turn to Melisandre and resurrect you again, just so that I can kill you again.

Best wishes and good-health,

**Sansa Stark**

  
  


*

  
  


_ To Sansa Stark, from Robb Stark: _

Father does not want me to tell you this, he does not want anyone to tell this to anyone for he does not want it to get out, but, by the gods, we saw them. We saw them. We saw the Others and, oh gods Sansa, they killed so many of our men. Father is going to treat with Mance Rayder. Gods, Sansa. I have never seen any sight as horrible as a wight coming towards me. Gods help us all.

**Robb Stark**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed. Please kudos&review, every feedback pushes me towards bigger (longer) and better things (chapters) ;-) also come follow me on tumblr @sanssstark. I post writing updates there and generally blog about asoiaf.


	9. Winterfell - 299, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Preperations For Winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy x.
> 
> Edit (04.10.2017): Just a minor change to the last part of this chapter.

_To Sansa Stark, from Robb Stark:_

Father does not want me to tell you this, he does not want anyone to tell this to anyone for he does not want it to get out, but, by the gods, we saw them. We saw them. We saw the Others and, oh gods Sansa, they killed so many of our men. Father is going to treat with Mance Rayder. Gods, Sansa. I have never seen any sight as horrible as a wight coming towards me. Gods help us all.

**Robb Stark**

 

*

 

Sansa rereads the letter from her brother, again and again. Bile rises in her throat, and she finds herself retching into the nearest bowl, panic blurring her every thought. She does not know how long she lies on the floor of her bedchamber, holding the bowl to her, but when Jeyne finds her the sun is already setting.

“HELP!” Jeyne calls out, voice trembling. “Oh gods, Sansa. Can you hear me? Sansa?”

“I can hear you.” Sansa mumbles. “I am not feeble minded.”

“Oh Gods.” Jeyne is crying. She holds Sansa close and Sansa exhales shakily as Mother and Maester Luwin crash into her room.

“I am fine.” Sansa mumbles. “I am fine.”

“You most assuredly are not, young lady.” Mother says, in her sternest voice.

Sansa's eyes fill with tears and she clutches the letter closer to her chest. The movement catches Mother's eye and she turns bone white.

“Mother, don't let it be.” Mother mutters, glancing upward. She kneels down beside Sansa and gently takes the letter from her hands. Sansa whimpers as Mother does so, but she doesn't resist – still unable to properly move her muscles. She watches as Mother reads the few words again and again.

“It must be a jest.” Mother mutters, confusion on her pretty face.

Maester Luwin takes the letter and he too reads it. “It must be, Lady Stark.”

“It isn't.” Sansa says, voice dreadfully quiet.

Mother and Maester Luwin exchange looks. And Gods, Sansa does not blame them. If she had not seen them with her own eyes, she would too not believe in the existence of the Others. She had not believed in them at first, in her past life. But they existed.

Sansa holds her breath as she gets up slowly. Jeyne is by her side still, hovering with a hand on Sansa's back. “It is not a jest.” Sansa says as she stands on two, steady feet. “Robb would not ever jest about something like that.”

Mother looks at her. Sansa can still see the doubt in her eyes, but Sansa also knows that Mother knows Robb just as well as Sansa knows him. They look at each other for a moment, and then Mother nods at Maester Luwin. “Send a Raven to Benjen's steward. Ask him what he has heard.”

“I will go speak with Old Nan.”

“Sansa. You still-”

Sansa stops both her mother and Jeyne in their tracts with a single look. “I am fine. We have more pressing matters to deal with.”

“There is nothing more pressing than your health!” Jeyne exclaims and Sansa feels a rush of love for her friend.

“Not this time, Jeyne.” Sansa says honestly.

“But-”

“Jeyne, leave it. Sansa is right.” Mother interrupts Jeyne this time. “But Sansa, you will visit Maester Luwin sometime today.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Good.”

Sansa hurries out of her chamber towards Old Nan's. They will need any information they can get and finally Sansa has a true reason to ask Old Nan for any story she can think of. Old Nan follows her to the library in confusion and they meet Mother and Maester Luwin there.

Old Nan speaks for hours, telling them of any story she has ever heard of the Others. Sansa takes notes, writing down what she already knows and what Old Nan confirms for her. There are a few things Sansa does not believe can be true – such as the story of a girl's love returning a wight to its human state, but most of what Old Nan says seems to have a sliver of truth.

Mother looks appropriately shaken as Old Nan finishes. “Do we believe what Robb wrote?”

“He has no reason to lie to me.” Sansa says, immediately. “You have read his other letters to me. Does it seem like he would start to lie to me now?”

Mother exhales. “No. It does not.”

“The Others are fairy tale creatures.” Maester Luwin objects, though it seems rather timid.

“So were the dragons once upon a time, and according to rumor there are dragons in Essos again.” Sansa says.

Old Nan cackles in delight. “The girl has a point, Maester.”

“I will write the Citadel and ask for more books on the matter.” Maester Luwin says reluctantly. “I still find it hard to believe. If the Others ever existed, no man or woman has seen one in ten thousand years.”

“The children have Direwolves the size of a horse as pets, Maester Luwin, and we have lived through a ten year summer. Times are changing.” Mother says. Sansa looks at her in surprise, but Mother exhales. She is still pale as snow. “Bran came to me a fortnight ago. He claims he has dreams in which he is his wolf. Rickon has said something similar.”

Old Nan clasps her hands together in delight. “A Warg.” She says delighted. “Ah, the times of old have truly returned to Winterfell.”

“That isn't a good thing, Old Nan.” Sansa says quietly. “The Others will bring nothing but death and misery and neither the direwolves nor being a warg will help that.”

Old Nan startles at Sansa's words, and Mother and Maester Luwin swap concerned looks. “Sansa, are you alright?” Mother asks.

Sansa shakes her head, but sighs. “I am alright. I -” She exhales. Should she tell them everything? She cannot help but think it will not go over well, she fears it will not go well at all.

“I have a very bad feeling.” Sansa admits. “I very bad feeling about all of it.”

Old Nan is eyeing her more carefully than she ever has and Sansa bristles under the attention. Mother takes Sansa's hand in hers and smiles sadly. “We have all been worried, Sansa. But they will return home. I know it.”

  


*

  


Sansa attempts to think positively, but everytime her thoughts wander to her brothers and her father in the lands beyond the wall, she feels faint. Despite the calming words of Mother, and Maester Luwin, and Jeyne Poole, she cannot help the dreadful feeling she gets.

Luckily they do not need to wait long for more information as a Raven with two letters arrives 3 days after Robb's hurried one. Both are written in Jon's familiar hand and Sansa nearly rips the one addressed to her out of Maester Luwin's hand.

  


_To Sansa Stark, from Jon Snow:_

Father sent me to treat with Mance Rayder. He agreed to meet Father and Uncle Benjen and the three of them are treating together in a tent as I speak. I believe we can come to an agreement that is better than what option we have now. Robb has told me of the letter he wrote you. He did not mean to worry you so much, but it is true. We saw the wights. Father now knows of their existance. I did not expect this, but we will deal with it. Please tell Lady Stark that Father will make his way south as swiftly as possible, but he has sent Robb ahead with part of the army. Robb should arrive within the month. I am sorry for worrying you.

**Jon**

  


Sansa exhales heavily as she rereads the words. They are safe, all three of them.

“Sansa?” Mother speaks up. Mother is pale, but steady as they swap letters.

  


_To Lady Catelyn Stark, from Jon Snow in place of Lord Eddard Stark:_

Robb is on his way south from the wall. By my calculations he should arrive at Winterfell within 29 days. Lord Stark wishes for preperations to be made to have every Major Lord of the North return to Winterfell in person within this month. Those who joined us north are returning to Winterfell with Robb. Lord Stark prays for your good health and that he will be home soon.

With Regards, **Jon Snow**.

  


Mother sits down on the vacant chair and she rubs a hand over her nose.

“My Lady, what is it?” Maester Luwin asks, in concern.

Sansa sets her palms on the desk and looks at her Mother. “Mother. We must ...”

“Yes, Sansa. I know.” Mother shakes her head and mumbles. “Gods, what has that man gotten himself into this time?”

Maester Luwin still eyes them both in concern. “Are the Lords Stark in good health?”

“Yes, Maester.” Sansa answers. “Robb is on his way south again, but Lord Stark is still in the North. He is speaking with the Wildling King.”

“Speaking?” Maester Luwin asks.

Sansa looks at him. “If the Others are back, mayhaps the Wildlings have insight into them seeing as they have been living Beyond the Wall as long as the Others have.”

“But Lord Stark cannot trust the word of a Wildling.” Maester Luwin protests.

Sansa understands his hesitance, she truly does. Before meeting Jon's wildling companions, Tormund Giantsbane and Sigorn of Thenn, and Rickon's wildling guardian Osha, she too had only heard the worst tales about the Wildlings.

“He will.” Mother says, with a sigh.

“Is it truly so bad? Surely you cannot want thousands of our men dying North of the Wall just as creatures that can raise the dead have started to appear.” Sansa tells them both, sharply. “Surely, you cannot want any man to die in a senseless needless war that can be stopped simply by diplomacy.”

Mother and Maester Luwin gape at her and Sansa deflates. “I apologize for my tone. I am worried about my brothers and my lord father. I did not mean to ...”

“It is alright, Sansa.” Mother waves her apology away.

“Perhaps we should make preparations for the Lords to return.” Maester Luwin suggests.

“Yes.” Mother nods. “I will write them in Lord Stark's name. Sansa, could you please run and fetch our books. They should be in my solar in the third drawer of my desk.”

“Of course.”

  


*

  


Sansa finds her days filled with more and more of the chores usually performed by her mother. She manages the servants, balances the numbers, organizes beds and chambers for all the men they are expecting and then spends the evenings discussing what little information trickles in from the North with Maester Luwin and Mother.

The whole situation is uncomfortably familiar. Sansa knows this life, managing a castle and the people within it, while waiting for news of a far away war. She finds herself wishing for the bitter cold sometimes, for at least then Sansa had an excuse to stay in her bed someday. Now however, she paces the floor of Mother's office when she works, sweating slightly in the too-warm dresses on the warm late-summer days.

Slowly but surely, those Lords who did not join Father in the journey north – those too old, too young, or too sick – arrive at Winterfell. Many bring a daughter or a wife and Sansa finds herself hosting nearly 20 women. Even Arya barely complains when Mother orders her to join them in the ladies solar, though Sansa suspects that has more to do with Jeyne Flint's rather adventurous stories than any desire to host a tea party.

A week within Robb's scheduled arrival, Bran has taken the men out to hunt, a grand hunting party of several dozen men and Sansa finds herself sowing in the company of a dozen noblewomen, listening to the chatter with half an ear. Jeyne touches her shoulder gently and hands Sansa a hot cup of tea with a gentle smile. “You work too much, Sansa.”

Jeyne has stepped up a lot, during this past week, making sure the ladies of the north knew that Sansa's most favored person favored them. Jeyne spent what time Sansa could not with the ladies and Sansa was more than grateful for her eldest friend.

“Thank you for the tea, Jeyne.” Sansa says, softly. Jeyne smiles, a warm adoring smile, and pats Sansa on the shoulder. Sansa sets her needlework down, rolls out her shoulders and looks around the room.

She knows a few, but has never had the pleasure to know some of the others. She wonders how they fared in her last lifetime, if they lived or died. Mayhaps if they had been lucky, they married someone good and gentle and in the South and therefore had more time to prepare at least before the Others came. Sansa doubted that any of them had been lucky.

“Oh Gods.” Alys Karstark exclaims.

Sansa looks up and sees her, and a great many of the other ladies staring at the door. Lady stands in the doorway, followed in by Arya and Nymeria, and Sansa suppresses a smile at the fear in the eyes of some of the ladies.

The wolves are near full grown. Even though Sansa knows that the wolves are good, even Lady, though the smallest of the litter, stands taller than Sansa herself. They are a fearful sight indeed.

“Lady.” Sansa says. Lady immediately trots to her side and Sansa runs a hand through Lady's fur. Lady lies down by Sansa's feet and raises her head, staring at the nearest lady who looks at her.

“Would you like to come closer, Lady Dustin?” Sansa asks, sweetly.

Lady Dustin looks perplexed, but she shakes her head. “I am fine to look at a distance, my lady.”

“She would only bite if I tell her to, Lady Dustin.” Sansa smiles. “I swear.”

Jenny Umber, on the other end of the room, breaks out into loud, bellowing laughter. “You do good by keeping your wolf close, Lady Sansa.” She says loudly. “You as well, Lady Arya. Those great beasts of yours will come in very handy one day.”

“Yes.” Sansa agrees shortly. “They will.”

Lady rests her head on her paws, a movement strangely dainty for such a large wolf. Nymeria nips at her tail, a movement Lady only responds to with a annoyed flick of the tail, and Arya's wolf turns away.

“Lady Sansa. Have you heard anymore from North of the Wall?” Alys asks. Her voice does not shake but her eyes never leave the two wolves by Sansa's feet.

Sansa only shakes her head. “Not since the last letter a week ago. But Lord Robb and the men have passed the junction of Long Lake.”

Alys nods, looking down at her hands with a worried expression on her face. Sansa feels for her. Her father, brothers and betrothed all joined the northern forces in the North. Alys could lose them all, though she was not in the least the only one.

A knock sounds at the door of the solar and Sansa calls out for them to enter. Maester Luwin opens the door, eyes scanning the room.

“Lady Sansa.” He says. “A raven has arrived from King's Landing.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: Happy 27th Unity Day to Germany!  
> Second: This was once a much, much longer chapter but I had to cut that monster in two and this was the best place to split it. Chapter 10 is finished, just needs a bit of polishing, and Chapter 11 is halfway finished. Unfortunately for us all, the new semester is starting in a week so I will not have as much time to write. I will still write, since this is fun and an outlet for me, but I will not be able to write as much.  
> Thirdly: A thousand thanks to all reviewers, kudos-givers, bookmarkers and subscribers. No fanfiction of mine has even gotten a response this overwhelming and I want to thank you all a thousand, thousand times. Words cannot express how much I love all of you.


	10. Winterfell - 299, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Pleasant Surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is being posted quicker than I expected, because I felt like it :)
> 
> Edit (10.10.2017): had to change the wording of a few sentences and a huge thank you to tyarsol for pointing me to the issue!

 

  


_To Lord Eddard Stark, from the Lord Hand Jon Arryn:_

I pray to the Seven that you and your family are doing well. It has been long since we spoke last and even longer since we have seen a Stark Face in the south. It cannot be healthy for you to stay in the North, and it surely your children must see the South at least once in their lifetime. The Tyrell's are hosting a Tourney at Highgarden starting on the 1st day of the 6th moon of this year. Please do come, Ned.

Do you recall when you and I visited Ellen and her daughter in the Vale? Do you remember what you said to me then? I heard a sennight ago that Ellen has passed, sadly. She was too young, but alas. I have thought of fostering young Mya somewhere, but all accounts from the Vale say she is a happy, vibrant young woman and so I thought it best to keep her at her home.

We have also heard news of Jorah Mormont, the Slaver from Bear's Island. He died in the Dothraki Sea in the middle of last year, according to Varys he died protecting the Targaryen girl. I would ask if I should arrange for the bones to be brought north, but, again, according to Varys the Targaryen Girl burnt them when he died.

On to more pressing matter, I know you wrote about the increase in Wildling Raids on the Northern Border of your Lands, asking for more men for the watch. I wrote the other kingdoms for support and a group of a hundred men are marching for the Wall as I write this letter. Should you come south, perhaps we can find a solution for the financing of the wall.

**Jon Arryn.**

  


*

  


Sansa wants to laugh as she rereads the letter by Jon Arryn. She stopped Jon Arryn's death to stop the Starks from needing to go south and now Jon Arryn himself was inviting the Starks south. It feels like a rather cruel, ironic joke, but she knows the actual joke will be lost on anyone but her and Jon.

Maester Luwin had handed the letter to her a half hour ago and Sansa gets the absurd urge to burn the letter before anyone else can see, but she knows she cannot do that. The invitation is innocent enough, and these were circumstances very different to those in her last life.

Sansa takes the letter to Mother, who is still in her chambers pouring over the ledgers. Sansa knocks at her door and Mother spins around startled. “I apologize, Mother. We received a letter from Lord Arryn.”

She watches as Mother reads it carefully. “What do you think, Sansa?” Mother asks.

“We should probably go.” Sansa says.

Mother nods. “Yes. I agree. We would have to leave at least a month and a half before the Tourney.”

“So we have to be ready to leave in a month.” Sansa exhales. Father will never make it back to Winterfell in time to join them. “Shall I write Lord Arryn it will only be you, me and Arya joining them?”

Mother looks at her and a small smile spreads over her face. “I am sorry, Sansa, but I will not be joining you.”

“Pardon me?” Sansa frowns at her mother. She would have thought her mother would be delighted to go south once more.

“I cannot join you. I wanted to wait with telling you this until Robb is back, but …” A big smile spreads over Mother's face. “I am pregnant. I do not wish to give birth to this babe in the south.”

Sansa gapes at her mother, completely stunned. She had not expected this at all. “Wow.” Sansa breathes, when she can finally find her voice. “That is … Congratulations, Mother.”

Mother laughs. “I found out a fortnight ago. It must have been conceived just before your father left.”

Sansa eyes Mother's still flat belly and exhales. “I am so happy for you, Mother.” She smiles and hopes the expression seems true. In truth, Sansa can barely think. She had never, not even in her wildest dreams, thought about another little brother or sister. It was stupid, of course, since Rickon was barely 4 years old, but she had never thought about another Stark life she was responsible for.

  


“ _Will you marry soon?” Rickon asks, looking up at her through his wild curls. Sansa runs a hand through the tangled curls and hums._

“ _Why do you ask, Rick?”_

“ _Artos Gutter said you would no longer play with me once you marry and have children.” Rickon says. He seems so uncertain, Sansa takes his hand into her immediately._

“ _Rickon, listen to me. No matter what happens. You will always be my little Rick.” She sighs. “You mustn't listen to Artos. He is only jealous you have a sister as wonderful as me.”_

_Rickon nods slowly. “So you will marry?”_

“ _Someday, yes.” Sansa says reluctantly. “But not anytime soon.”_

“ _Why do you have to marry someday? Will I have to marry someday?”_

_Sansa laughs. “Mayhaps. You will marry when you are big and strong as Robb. There will be a pretty girl who will laugh at your jokes, love Shaggy as much as you do and you will have children and live here at Winterfell.”_

“ _No one will ever love Shaggy as much as I do.” Rickon says fiercely. He stops and thinks. “Except maybe you. And Osha.”_

_Sansa presses a kiss onto Rickon's forehead. For once he doesn't struggle away and Sansa holds him close to her chest._

  


“Sansa.” Mother comes around her desk and gathers Sansa's hands into hers. “I am so proud of you, Sansa. You have truly stepped up these past 3 months.” She kisses Sansa on the forehead and Sansa smiles. “Do not worry too much. We will get the full story of what happened from your brother when he returns south and we will decide if you and your sister go south when Robb arrives.”

“Yes, mother.” Sansa resists the childish urge to wrap her arms around her mother's waist, but she sighs as Mother presses another kiss to her forehead.

“Go along then. I believe Bran was looking for you earlier.”

“Yes, mother.” Sansa extracts herself from her mother's warm embrace and just before she leaves the room, she looks back. “I hope it is a girl.”

“Don't tell your father, but so do I.” Mother says. Sansa grins and leaves her mother be.

  


*

  


She is the one to meet Lord Wyman Manderly when he arrives. The Fat Lord approaches her with a jolly smile, sinking into a bow after which he struggles to get back up again. She lets him kiss her hand and receives him with warm bread, salt and a smile.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Manderly.” Sansa says. “We missed your presence during the Harvest Feast, though Lord Wylis was a joy to have around.”

“Oh you flatter me, Lady Sansa.” Lord Manderly booms. “I am too old and frankly too fat to make the journey to Winterfell so often, so I must ask why Lady Stark has asked me to come personally while the Lord Stark is still north of the wall.”

“Unfortunately there have been developments North of the Wall. My brother Robb will arrive within the day and he needs to speak to the Lords of the North personally.” Sansa answers.

Lord Manderly goes pale, patting at his sweating forehead. “Gods be good, girl. Did Lord Stark die in battle?”

“Oh.” Sansa startles. “I apologize, my lord. My father is very well, of good health. It is unfortunately another matter we must discuss with the North. My father would hosts the talks himself, but he has more business to attend to north of the wall.”

“Business north of the wall?” Lord Manderly asks. “I cannot even fathom what business one could have north of the wall.”

“Again, my lord. My brother will explain everything once he arrives.”

“You Starks are a dramatic lot.” Lord Manderly laughs loudly. “Goodness girl, you gave me a fright.”

“I apologize my lord. I did not mean to imply anything.”

“Would not have been the first time we lost a Northern Lord to a rebellion.” Lord Manderly says.

“No, my lord. It would not be.”

“Let us pray that it does not happen to this Lord.”

“Yes, my lord.” Sansa nods. She is doing a little more than praying to ensure this lord lives a long and happy and peaceful life. “May I show you to your chambers, my lord. I pray you do not take offense, but we have made up rooms on the lowest floor of the castle.”

Lord Manderly's laugh booms and Sansa startles. “Oh, Lady Sansa, if I would take offense to that, I would not lead a particularly joyous life. Besides, any steps I am not forced to take are years I shall continue to live.”

“I am glad to hear.”

“So, Lady Sansa. You must tell me why it is you who is greeting me and not your younger brother or mother.” Lord Manderly asks. She feels his curious gaze on her face and she smiles.

“Mother has taken ill unfortunately, just a bout of the flu and my brother Bran is only 9 years old. He is attending to his lessons with our Maester.” Sansa looks at the Fat Lord. “If you wish I can fetch our steward or my brother.”

“It was not a complaint, Lady Sansa.” Lord Manderly says. There is a smile on his face and Sansa believes him. “I must admit, I always feel rather ancient when a lordling younger than 10 name days comes to welcome me.”

“I am barely older.” Sansa raises an eyebrow. “I only had my 12th name day three moon turns ago.”

Lord Manderly looks truly surprised. “Truly?”

“Yes, my lord. I am sure I am only 12.”

He laughs. “I shall take your word for it, Lady Sansa.”

They arrive at the Lord's chambers and Sansa swings the doors open. “I have had the servants bring your luggage here already. This is Alf, should you require anything please do not hesitate to ask him.”

“Lord Manderly.” Alf, one of Winterfell's eldest servants, bows deeply.

“Well met.” Lord Manderly says.

“The Ladies Wynfryd and Wylla are settled in the North Tower, should you care to visit them. Alf will show you.” Sansa says. “Please excuse me, I have another matter to attend to.”

“You are excused.” Lord Manderly says, before breaking out into booming laughter.

Sansa leaves the rooms to make her way towards the library. Maester Luwin had reminded her of the missives she still needed to respond to earlier, before she had welcomed Lord Manderly, and so she hurries back. She will need a good night's sleep tonight, to be fully awake the next day when Robb finally came home and the talks started. Robb and Jon were still frustratingly vague about the natures of the talks in their letters, but Sansa figures she will find out tomorrow so she was not stressed about it.

“Maester?” Sansa knocks at the door of the library and startles when Old Nan and Mother turn to her in unison. “Mother?”

“Hey sweetling.”

“I thought you were not feeling well?” Mother had been taken by a rather violent bout of morning sickness that morning and so she had asked Sansa to take over her duties for the day. Sansa had not expected her mother out of her chamber.

“Oh I was feeling better.” Mother says.

“Oh.” Sansa frowns. “So you have already finished with the papers?”

“Oh goodness no.” Mother laughs. “Come, and help. Old Nan and I were just discussing you and your siblings when you were babes.”

Mother has mellowed since learning about her pregnancy, Sansa thinks. She is softer, filled with more smiles and the change in her mother makes Sansa smile as well.

“Is this one a terror?” Sansa asks.

Mother laughs. “No, darling. It is too early for the babe to be a true terror. That comes later, when they are 6 or 7 moons old.”

“How old is it now?”

“Maybe 3 or 4 moons.”

Sansa does not know a thing about babes or pregnancy. “Oh. So it will come,” she counts in her head, “around the 8th moon?”

“There abouts.” Mother agrees.

Sansa thinks back. During the 8th moon of the year 299 of her past life, King's Landing had been preparing for the Battle of Blackwater and while Mother and Robb had been still alive, they had started to lose the war. How different everything was already.

“What work needs to be done?” Sansa asks.

Mother pushes a large pile of folded parchment in her direction. “You look tired, my love. Perhaps you should rest for the rest of the today.”

“I am not tired.” Sansa lies. Mother looks at her, with the look Sansa suspects all mother learn with their first pregnancy. “I am a little tired. I will just work through a few of them.”

“I won't stop you, but Sansa you mustn't do everything for everyone.” Mother says.

Sansa nods at her and settles in to work. Answering missives are the most boring job of a Lord or Lady, Sansa had learned that a lifetime ago, but it was also tone of the most important jobs. Old Nan and Mother keep talking beside her, but Sansa tunes them out as she works through a farmer asking for more land, then a miller bemoaning the low prices of wheat and a Shepard claiming someone had stolen sheep from his land.

Sansa yawns as she unscrambles the question of a minor lord who asks for lumber to build a new barn from the wolfswood. Her eyes droop, and so she pushes the parchments away and stops herself. Mother has long left, sometime when Sansa was not paying attention, but Old Nan still sits beside her, silently working on some knitting.

“Are you finished?” Old Nan asks, without looking up from her knitting.

“Not quite, but I think I am done for today.”

“Good.” Old Nan puts away the unfinished sweater and looks at her hardly. “So now you can tell me what happened to you a year ago.”

Sansa gapes at the old woman she had known all her life. She has never heard Old Nan take such a tone before, especially not with any of them children. “Pardon me?”

“I am not going to tell your mother or father, but you must tell me what happened. I don't think the boy wants to do you any harm, but since you slip out into the Godswood early at dawn with Jon you have changed so much.”

The tips of Sansa's ears flame. She splutters. “He is teaching me to fight!”

Old Nan looks at her firmly. “It is more than than, Sansa. You and Jon both are barely recognizable anymore. And I have known you since you were as little as your little brother or sister is now. And I knew your father and his brothers and sister for just as long, and his father and mother before that. Children do not change as much as you have. Not within a single day. You must tell me what you know of the Others, otherwise I cannot help you.”

“I-I” Sansa stammers. She is too tired to properly think of an excuse. “I had … They killed all of us. The Lannisters killed mother and father and I do not even care about them, because the Others will kill us all.”

Old Nan exhales sharply, leaning back in her chair. Sansa stares at her in shock, unable to believe that after nearly a year and a half of not telling anyone what happened to her, a simple question and overwhelming fatigue have made her spill the truth.

“Where did you see all this? Did you have a vision? It is not uncommon for greenseers to be within families of wargs.” Old Nan asks.

Sansa shakes her head. “It was not a vision. I lived it. I lived it all and I am living it again, but it is different now.”

Old Nan stops short and stares. “You have lived it before?”

“Yes.” Sansa's eyes fill with tears. She blinks them away angry. “I lived it before and I have changed everything.”

“Oh my child.” Old Nan reaches over the table and gently traces Sansa's face. “I am sorry that this has happened to you.”

Sansa chokes on a sob, leaning into the warm and comforting hand. “It is so exhausting. I do not know what will happen anymore. Anything could change at a moment's notice and it is so exhausting.”

“Oh sweetling. I know.” Old Nan sighs. “I am sorry that this is happening to you.”

“Jon is back as well.” Sansa reveals. “We came back together.”

Old Nan's eyes light up. “He has?”

Sansa nods. “We are … I do not know how I could have coped without him.”

“The Gods always send who we need most.” Old Nan nods sagely.

Jon isn't who she needs most, Sansa thinks automatically. “Have you heard of something similar before?”

Old Nan eyes her. “There have been rumors of the Gods fixing the world should the course of events have turned too horrible.”

“It was horrible.” Sansa whispers. “Jon, Rickon, I and maybe Arya were the only ones who lived. The Wall fell and the Others were coming south in the hundred thousands. I do not know how many there truly were. We lost so many people.”

“The Wall fell?” Old Nan asks, stunned.

Sansa nods. “The Wall fell when the Horn of Joramun was blown. It was an accident, and it made everything so much worse.”

“Gods.” Old Nan looks out of the library window towards the Godswood and Sansa gets the impression she wants to go pray for days. Sansa knows the feeling.

“Father was dead already, a lifetime ago.” Sansa continues. Now that the dam has been broken, she cannot stop talking and somehow Sansa doubts Old Nan wants her to. “I was held hostage by the Lannisters and they beat me. Arya somehow survived 5 years wandering Westeros without anyone to help her. Robb was crowned King of the North and then he was murdered at Edmund Tully's wedding to a Frey bride. They murdered him under the Guest Rights.”

“Good Gods.” Old Nan whispers. “No wonder the Gods decided to fix the course of events.”

Good Gods, Sansa agrees silently.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit I was very amused when the reviews for the last chapter came rolling in along with a avalance of annoyance/hatred towards the south. I am sorry for worrying all of you, luckily this letter was not as dreadful as some of you feared.  
> The inspiration for making Cat pregnant was taken directly from her second chapter in aGoT. Since she is only 33 it is likely that she will have another child considering how absurdly furtile she seems to be ... ahem. Also, I don't think anyone guessed that Old Nan would be the (first) person to find out about Jon and Sansa. I did not either, but when I wrote this chapter it felt really organic so I kept it.  
> Chapter 11 is finished and honestly my favorite chapter so far. I am really excited to share it with you (*queue the maniacal laughter*). I will post it sometime early next week probably. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyways, I hope you liked and enjoyed this :)


	11. Winterfell - 299, Pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Reunions And Deliberations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy x

Robb arrives under loud fanfare, and accompanied by 30 lords. Their horses look half dead, ridden hard for 3 weeks, and Sansa immediately orders Hullen to take care of them.

“Winterfell is yours, brother.” Bran says, his small voice steady.

“Thank you, brother.” Robb responds. There is a smile on his face and he quickly embraces Bran.

Sansa approaches Robb as soon as Bran steps away and when his face splits into a big grin, she throws her arms around his neck and squeezes him as tightly as she can manage. He is thin, her big brother, but he still feels solid and warm and so comforting in her arms.

“I missed you, brother.”

“I missed you too, little sister.” Robb says, flicking her nose. “I missed you more than Jon and if he tries to tell you anything different, he is a dirty rotten liar.”

Sansa laughs and steps back to let Mother reunite with Robb instead. She stops Rickon as he barrels for Robb, stopping him from breaking all of Robb's bones, and holds him tightly as she watches Mother start crying as she sees Robb. Robb too gets teary eyed, but he composes himself quickly again. Sansa lets Rickon go, and her little brother runs for Robb with a loud “OBB” that shatters Sansa's eardrums. She herself turns to the men in Robb's retinue.

“We have prepared beds. Please follow our Steward, Lord Poole.” She motions toward Vayon Poole, who greats the Lords in stead and they slowly leave the courtyard.

Robb carries Rickon on one hip, running a gloved hand over Arya's hair and he smiles brilliantly at her when Sansa turns back around. “I missed you all so much,” Robb says. There are tears in his eyes.

“Come.” Mother says. “We must get out of the cold.” She orders a servant to bring tea and soup up to her solar, and together they slowly make their way into the castle. Robb walks gingerly, sorely and Sansa slips an arm around his waist.

They all sit in Mother's Solar for hours, Robb speaking slowly of all the horrors that they saw North of the Wall and them telling Robb what has happened in Winterfell since he left. After all words have been spoken, they all sit in silence. Even the boys and Arya stay quiet and Sansa thinks that for once they all feel the same genuine calm in the presence of _family_. Sansa can barely look away from Robb, so grateful that he is back at home.

Eventually, when Rickon has fallen asleep already and Bran's eyes fall shut, Mother brings them both to bed. Arya too leaves, probably to go find Nymeria or something or another. Robb and Sansa stay for a moment, eyeing each other in the flickering light of the waning fire.

“I have missed you.” She says.

“I missed you as well.” Robb replies.

“Are you alright?”

Robb laughs, thankfully. “You and Jon.” He says. “You keep asking me questions.”

“Of course we do. We need all the information we can get.” Sansa says truthfully.

Robb stops laughing and looks at her. “You have grown, Sansa.”

“It has been 4 moons.”

“You know what I mean.” Robb's smile softens.

Sansa nods. She knows what he means. In some strange way, Sansa still had hoped she would be able to protect her family from all of the horrors that were still to come. “I am sorry you had to see that.”

“That is what Jon said to me as well.” Robb sighs.

Sansa does not even want to think about what could have happened if Jon had not known of everything. Robb falls silent, and stifles a yawn against his hand. Sansa stands, eyeing her brother one last time. “You should rest, brother.”

Robb nods. Together they walk the short distance to Robb's own chamber. She tells him goodnight again and watches the door latch shut behind her big brother.

The big breath Sansa had not even realized she was holding escapes and she leans against the wall. Gods, she is so grateful that Robb is home safely. Now she only needs to worry about Jon and Father. Once they are home as well, she will finally feel free of the suffocating weight of worry on her shoulders. A part of it has lifted and she can truly breath so much easier already.

“How is he?” The quiet voice startles Sansa. She looks up and finds Theon watching her carefully. He is dressed in simple black, none of the richly decorated clothes he usually favors.

“Tired.” Sansa says. “But otherwise unharmed.”

Theon deflates and he looks so relieved, Sansa feels a rush of sympathy for him. “Join me for a walk, Theon.” She tells him and he immediately steps beside her.

They walk in silence for a few moments, before Theon suddenly asks: “Has Robb said what he wishes to discuss with the Lords?”

“Not as such.” Sansa sighs. “They … I believe he will speak to the Lords about the threat that faces us from the North.”

“A threat?” Theon looks down at her in confusion. “The Wildlings?”

“No. Well, yes, in part.” Sansa pauses. She wonders if she should tell Theon. He would probably find out in the morrow anyways, but still she feels strange about telling Theon now. There is a large part of her that does not trust the Greyjoy. She cannot forget what he did to their family in the past life, but she also remembers what he did for Jeyne.

“In part?” Theon asks. “Sansa what-?”

“The Others.” Sansa says. “I am speaking of the Others. Robb says they were attacked.”

Theon stops and Sansa has to turn on her feet to look at him. The expression on his face is strangely reminiscent of Jon's unsure expression, though neither men would be happy with that comparison Sansa wagers. “The Others? Sansa. Those are fairy tales. No more.”

Sansa laughs, though the sound is bitter even to her own ear. “I wish it were so, Theon.”

“But-”

“Robb will explain tomorrow.” Sansa assures him. Theon still looks as if he were in a daze, but he does not startle when Sansa touches his arm gently. “Come Theon.”

He escorts her to the kennel where the wolves are slumbering. Lady lifts her head as she senses Sansa approaching and soon the other wolves awaken as well.

“They're large, your wolves.”

Sansa startles, spinning around and nonsensically raises an arm to protect herself. Theon too startles, sword halfway taken out of its sheath, and the Wolves swarm to Sansa's side growling in the dark.

If the stranger is afraid, he does not show it as he steps forward into the light. He is an old man, with gray hair and beard, but still his form is impressive as he steps up to Sansa. There is no sigil on his clothes, but the man wears an obsidian dagger on his belt and is dressed in big furs.

“I meant not frighten the Lady.” The stranger says. He does not step closer, though Sansa thinks that is more due to Theon's half step in front of her and Shaggy's loud growl. “I was only seeing if the tales of Direwolves at Winterfell were true.”

“They are, as you have seen now.” Sansa says, proud of her unshaking voice. She steps out of Theon's shadow and looks at the man as firmly as she dares. She buries her hand in Lady's fur and the courage comes to her. “And who am I speaking with?”

The stranger looks at her. “My name is Soren Magnar, Lord of Kingshouse.”

“Of Skagos.” Sansa nods, desperately hoping that the surprise she feels is not reflected on her face. They sent Ravens to the Lords of Skagos, but never got a response and the Ravens never returned neither. Sansa forgot all about the Skagosi Lords. She never met on in her old life, and she has not thought they would come now.

“Aye, lassie.” The Skagosi Lord nods. “Soren Magnar of Skagos.”

“We did not believe you would come.” Sansa says honestly. “We never received word.”

“Oh the Raven must have gotten lost.” The man says.

Sansa does not believe him, but she only nods curtly. “Welcome to Winterfell, my Lord. Have you got quarters to stay, or shall I -”

“I have lodgings in Winter's Town.” Soren Magnar says. There is a sense of amusement to his face now and Sansa forbids herself to ask how he got into Winterfell in the first place. She fears she will not like the answer. There has not been a Skagosi visit to Winterfell in almost a hundred years, not since Lord Brandon Stark, Sansa's own great-great-great-grandfather had taken in a dozen Skagosi boys as hostages for their fathers good behavior following the last Skagosi Rebellion.

“Are we to expect Lords Crowl and Stane tomorrow as well?” Sansa asks.

Soren Magnar shakes his head. “Nay. They are still at Skagos.”

“Very well. I shall inform my brother.” Sansa says. She turns halfway away from the man and by the snap of her finger, all the wolves follow her.

“You have control.” Soren Magnar says, voice surprised. “That is good.”

“Pardon me?” Sansa turns back to face him again.

“The Kings of Skagos followed the Kings of Winter a thousand years ago when the Starks were still wolves made flesh. A sign of the Gods, that is.” Soren Magnar says. “The Starks lost the gift hundreds of years ago and with it the trust of the Skagos men. Dark times are coming. It is good the wolves have returned to the South.”

Sansa tries not to gape at the man's words. She has heard similar things before, mostly from wildlings or the most devout clan member, about the Starks being magic, or gifted by the Gods. She has not heard it stated in this life however.

“The wolves have never left us.” Sansa manages to respond. “Starks are the wolves.”

Soren Magnar looks at her, then her wolves. “Aye. That might be.” He does not sound convinced, but he does not press the issue either.

Sansa bids him a goodnight and leaves as quickly as she dares without appearing to run away. The wolves follow her at her heels and Theon brings an end to the small procession. He does not let go of the hilt of his sword until they enter the warm halls of the Keep and he proceeds to escort her until her chamber.

The wolves stay with her, not even protesting as they lie down beside Sansa on her furs. Mayhaps they feel she needs comfort tonight, but anyhow it is good to know there are 4 large wolves ready to protect her whatever comes. Still it takes hours for Sansa to finally fall asleep properly, and when she does dark figures chase her through her dreams.

  
  


*

  
  


It is only two hours after dawn, when Sansa arrives at the great Keep with Arya by her side. The usual large benches and tables have been moved aside for a large, square construction that allowed every person to see everyone else. The Keep is filled already, with Lords sitting at their place, and only the places for the Starks are still empty. Only Mother already sits at her place, to the immediate right of Robb's more embellished high chair, and Sansa quickly seats herself to Mother's right.

Finally, Robb enters the room and the talking quiets as he makes his way to his seat. He is dressed simply, a doublet of pure white and a big gray cloak, but Sansa thinks her brother looks rather lordly in that moment.

“Good morrow.” Robb addresses them all. He seems weary, and still tired, though that might also be due to the early hour. The early hour can be seen a many Lords faces, and Sansa too feels as though it is too early for thinking, but she figures that is rather because of her unrestful sleep the night before. Arya, now sitting by Sansa's right, is slumped on the table, barely keeping herself upright. Sansa shakes her gently and Arya groans as she swats Sansa's hand away.

“I apologize for taking you from your beds so early, however we have much to discuss.” Robb starts. Sansa feels the pit in her stomach widening. “As not every Lord, or Lady, was part of the campaign to the Wall I feel it prudent to tell the tale of what happened North of the Wall.”

As Sansa looks across the room she immediately spots those who did not join the campaign. They must have heard whispers over the days at Winterfell, so they look very curious.

“At Castle Black, Lord Commander Stark sent a half dozen Rangers to show us the way through the lands beyond the wall. We marched towards the last known location of the Wildling Army. Over a fortnight into our march, we sent a scouting party ahead as we had not seen another soul in that entire time. The Rangers were sure that something was amiss. Among that Scouting Party were Owen Norrey, Eddard Karstark and a dozen other, battle grown men.”

Robb pauses, and his sigh is loud as he looks around the hall. “We did not hear from them for nearly a week, before two members found themselves back. The party had been attacked by hundreds of wights, and only Owen Norrey and Harald Miller, vassal of House Bolton, survived the attack.”

There are murmurings in the hall. Sansa scans the room, looking at the expressions of the assembled Lords and Ladies. The men who fought alongside Robb nod their head in agreement, grimly looking down at the memory. Alys Karstark cries softly, leaning against her father in comfort. Others look stunned, unwilling to believe what Robb has just told them.

“Wights?” The Lady of Widow's Watch asks, skepticism firm in her tone. “Those are-”

“We did not believe them at first either, my Lady.” Greatjon Umber says. “Lord Stark thought it a fairy tale the men thought of in shame.”

“But?” Lady Lynessa Flint asks, tone disbelieving.

“Then we were attacked.” Robb continues. “4 nights after Norrey and Miller returned, we were attacked in the dead of night by hundreds, maybe even thousands, of creatures I have never seen before. Neither swords nor arrows could stop them.”

 

_One of Sansa's ladies shrieks as the corpse on the floor jerks, and rises slowly. Sansa grabs at Mya's arm, pulling her close and together they stumble away from formerly dead body. He had been dead, they had slit his throat, but still the corpse moves. Sansa mind races. Jon had promised no dead body could be revived south of the Wall, he had told her so a thousand times. But Gods, that would mean –_

_The corpse stands and stares at their group of ladies. It's bright blue eyes seem to pierce through all of Sansa's thoughts and she feels the panic rising in her throat. Gods, she can barely breathe for it._

“ _Fire.” Sansa gasps. “We need fire.”_

_The corpse stands in their way, directly before the fireplace and Sansa looks around, there is nothing to make fire with. They need fire, fire or dragonglass or Valyrian Steel. Jon had said: “Only fire can truly destroy a wight. Dragonglass or Valyrian Steel for the Others”._

“ _Run, Sansa.” Lyra Mormont whispers in her ear, before she storms the corpse – the wight – with a bellowing shriek, driving it to the other side of the room._

“ _Lyra! NO!” Sansa shouts, wanting to hold Lyra back but Mya pulls her forward, along the side of the room and closer to the exit. The wight makes an ungodly noise, patting away Lyra's sword with an easy movement. Fire, Sansa's mind tells her again, and Sansa tugs her arm free from Mya's protective grasp, unwrapping her shawl and holding it into the fireplace. The fur catches fire immediately and it surges up to Sansa's arm. She stumbles as the fire licks at her fingers, and, oh gods it hurts, she tries to wrap the shawl around the wight. “Only fire can truly destroy a wight”_

_Sansa drops the burning fur as Mya yanks her back._

“ _Lady Sansa you cannot,” Mya starts, but Sansa doesn't hear her anymore. The wight is not inflames, but beautiful, clever Wylla runs forward with a torch and she shoves it in the wight's face and it bursts aflame with a harrowing shriek and oh gods, there is a burning man in Sansa's solar. Gods, they killed him twice in as many minutes. Sansa's mind spins as she thinks of the possibilities. One stands out in her mind. If a corpse resurrected south of the wall, the wall could be no more._

  
  


Sansa shakes herself out of the memory of a day long ago, and concentrates on the present.

“Fortunately the Stark Bastard thought quickly.” Richard Karstark says. There are noises of agreement all over the hall. Sansa looks at Robb in surprise. He had not mentioned so yesterday.

Robb too nods. “Aye, once we lit the arrows with flames and passed out torches to every man the wights could be driven back. It cost us nearly 400 men, but we stopped the attack.”

400 men. The figure still pains Sansa. She knows that in the long run, 400 men will barely make a difference, yet still it pains to think of the families of these men who will never see their loved ones again. Alys Karstark still weeps and Greatjon Umber who lost a son in the battle shakes his head angrily.

“We now know that the Others have returned. Mayhaps it should have been expected. The past decade long summer of recorded history was followed by a three decade long winter. That winter was known as the Long Night, and then the Others could only be turned back by the Last Hero right here at Winterfell. It was here that winter, quite literally, fell and Bran the Builder, the first Stark of recorded history, built both the very castle we sit in today and the Wall. We have long thought to understand the Others nothing more than stories. We must understand differently now. The Others are most assuredly coming and we must prepare winter. Winter is, after all, coming.”

There is only silence in the hall. Sansa looks across the room. Most lords look discomfited, to be aware of what is coming does not make it any better. Sansa knows this from own experience. The great feeling of hopelessness grips her heart tight and she tries to shake it off. A few some still look disbelieving, looking around the room as if to expect someone will come out and yell that is was all just a jest.

“We Starks have protected the North for millenia. But Lord Stark knows we cannot protect the entire North from death, hunger or cold.” Robb looks around the room. “But we must make preperations now. I ask that we keep 2/3rds of the grain harvested. Yes, this will mean that less food for coming months, but it will be a boon in the darkest day of winter. Any other available food should be preserved as best as possible and spared for winter.”

“And what if winter does not come?” Lady Barbary Dustin asks. She is one of the few skeptics and she looks Robb directly in the eye as she challenges him.

“Then there shall be a great amount of food available for spring.” Robb says dryly. “You are welcome to ask your Lord Father what he saw North of the Wall, Lady Dustin. I am sure he will corroborate my tales.”

“Where is Lord Stark?” Lady Flint says. “Why is he not here making these demands of us himself?”

Robb shifts uncomfortably. “My Lord Father, along with the majority of the Northern Army, stayed North of the Wall. He, along with Lord Commander Stark, speak with the King of the Wildling Army, Mance Raydar.”

The men who came south with Robb do not react in surprise, but the rest of the hall erupts in confused horror.

“Speak? With a Wildling?” Lord Manderly bellows. He sits back in his chair heavily, which creaks dangerously under his weight.

“Has he lost his senses?” Roose Bolton says, quietly but his voice echoes through the hall.

Robb stands and the movement hush the Lords again. “He went with the understanding that no Wildling would hurt him. My own bastard brother, Jon Snow, had spoken with the Wildlings beforehand making terms for the talks.”

“But why?” Lord Manderly asks. There is still a sheer amount of horror in his voice.

“When deliberating how to prepare the North against a possible Invasion of the Others, my Father Lord Stark and Lord Commander Stark learned that many of the wights who attacked us were once wildling men, women and children. Mance Raydar has assembled his people to escape the threat of the Others. They were not buildling an army, they were fleeing from the threat of certain death.” Robb takes a deep breath and looks around the room, talking care to look many Lords, especially those who had not seen the wights in person, in the eye.

“Therefore Lord Stark and Lord Commander Stark propose to resettle the Wildlings south of the Wall in the Lands of the North and the Gift.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am glad you liked the last chapter. This one is a bit of a setup for the next chapters, but still very important indeed. 
> 
> I would like to give a shoutout to sanva and their wonderful story Valar Botis at this point. When I reread their story over the weekend I realized that quite a few of the ideas of this plotline were part of their story as well. And while this idea has its foundation in canon, their beautiful story did probably influence my brain as well. So a shoutout it is :) Go read Valar Botis, if you haven't yet. It is AMAZING!
> 
> Also, if you would like to talk ASOIAF with me, you can find me on tumblr at sanssstark.tumblr.com 
> 
> So, that was it from my side. I hope you liked and enjoyed this chapter and see you all at Chapter 12 ;)


	12. Winterfell - 299, Pt. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Weddings, Plans And Preperations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all that celebrate.  
> Happy Holidays to all who had days off.  
> Happy (almost) New Year to everyone else!
> 
> Edit (4th January 2018): I changed the name of Jeyne Umber to Jenny Umber.

 

_To Robb Stark, from Jon Snow in place of Eddard Stark_

I hope this reaches you before you arrive at Winterfell. Within the deliberations with Mance Raydar Lord Stark has gotten the Free Folk to agree to the following:

The Free Folk will be under Winterfell's rule of law and all crimes committed by or against the Free Folk will only be ruled over by the Starks. Even those settled in the Gift will be under the Stark rule of law, for now by Uncle Benjen and after his death by Winterfell. Any murder of a free man by a northman will be punished as harshly as a murder of a northman by a free man, without exception.

Additionally Mance Raydar has agreed to the stealing of men or women of the north being forbidden. The man or woman stolen will have the decision to do with their captor as they wish, should they already be dead a Stark will decide over the punishment.

Also the Free Folk will only be allowed to hunt in predetermined lands, but these lands are not allowed to be less fruitful than any land northmen are allowed to hunt on. Should they stray from these lands they will be punished by the same law as northmen would be punished.

We have not finished the talks since there are still some among the Free Folk who do not agree to be put under Stark rule, but Father is convinced that we will soon come to an agreement. **Jon Snow**

 

 

 

_To Lord Eddard Stark, from Sansa Stark in the stead of Robb Stark:_

We have commenced the talks. I am confident Robb can get most of the Lords to agree and those who do not will have to do so anyways. I foresee the most problems with Lord Bolton, though perhaps that should not be such a large surprise. Surprisingly however Lord Umber has already agreed to host a number of Wildlings on his lands.

Unfortunately The Lords did not agree to the clause that the ~~Wildli~~ Free Folk will be solely under Stark Rule. Robb has not moved from our position, however I propose that the Starks determine a person in each Lords lands which is solely responsible for upholding the law. This person can only be determined by a Stark and as such has the authority to rule. Should they rule in a unjust way, a Stark can also dispose them. This delegation of the task can put some Lords as ease, especially if we hand the honor to a second son or cousin. The Free Folk of course would need to agree, however I am sure they too understand delegations.

Robb has also ordered the rebuilding of many houses in the lands around Winterfell and has sent laborers north to the gift to aid the Night's Watch in rebuilding houses on the Gift. They should be arriving within a week. Lord Commander Stark has been informed and he has agreed to pay the laborers with food, furs and lodging. The North will be as close to prepared for the Free Folk as possible in such short a time.

In other news, Mother has decided to set Robb's wedding date. She argues that since we have assembled all the Lords at Winterfell for the second time in 5 moons turns it would not be practical for the wedding to be later, so Robb shall be married in 3 weeks while the Lords are still assembled at Winterfell. I pray to the Gods you and Jon make it south in time. **Sansa**

 

_To Sansa Stark, from Eddard Stark:_

The Delegation is a very good idea, Sansa. Make sure Robb presents it to the Lords as a great honor to be chosen as our surrogate, and that this honor can be taken away as quickly as it was given. **Eddard Stark**

 

 

_To any Stark in Winterfell, from Eddard Stark:_

Mance Raydar has agreed to all clauses. I am riding home tomorrow with the most important Free Folk Leaders. If we ride swiftly I should be home within a moons turn. Jon is staying north of the wall with a few selected warriors, to aid the Free Folk in preparing to ride south. We send our love, **Eddard Stark**

 

 

*

 

“Father is coming home.” Robb announces that night at dinner, lowly so that only Sansa and Mother hear. Sansa's heart skips at the news, a grin spreading over her face. Gods, finally. The low level of fear that had been in the back of her mind ever since Father and Jon and Robb left for the North lifts just slightly. She cannot wait for her family to be together again.

“Oh thank the Gods.” Mother breathes. One of Mother's hands rests on her slightly extended belly and Sansa smiles at the sight, reaching over the table to squeeze Mother's other hand. “When will he arrive?”

“In about a moon's turn.” Robb says with a small shrug.

Sansa and Mother look at each other and Sansa bites at her lip. She, Bran and Arya were set to leave for Highgarden in a moons turn. If they were unlucky, they would leave before Father returns. Perhaps they could push their departure back another week. Gods, Sansa needs to see Father and Jon again.

“He is riding alongside a group of Wildling Leaders.” Robb says.

Sansa frowns. “And the rest of them?”

“Jon is staying North for the moment and he will accompany them south himself.” Robb explains.

Oh. Sansa looks down at her plate. Well. She understands the reasoning, at least it makes sense in her mind, but still she had hoped to see Jon again soon. Writing cryptic letters to the other did not compare to sitting together in the Godswood discussing their past life. She had missed Jon more these past 4 moons than she had thought possible.

“Are you going to tell the Lords?” Mother asks.

“Not today.” Robb says with a sigh. “Tomorrow.”

 

*

 

The mood in Winterfell stays tense in the week leading up to Robb's wedding. Most of the Lords stay in Winterfell and the weeks-long visit are making a tiny dent into their coffers. It is not enough to worry anyone but Sansa – whose knowledge of a possible decades long winter weighs heavily on her whenever she looks through the books. The wedding is yet another toll as Mother planned a big feast – an attempt at regaining some goodwill among the Lords, who still smarted about needing to accept Free Folk onto their lands.

When the day of the wedding finally arrives, Sansa makes her way to Robb's room early in the morning.

“Are you nervous?” Sansa asks her big brother as they sit together. Poor Robb looks so nervous Sansa isn't even certain why she is asking.

Shrugging his shoulder slightly, Robb looks at her. “Not truly. I wish Father were here but it is part of life is it not? Marriage ...” Robb trails off and grimaces. “Mayhaps I am nervous.”

“You shouldn't be.” Sansa tells him, but she cannot stop the slightly teasing smile on her face. “Meera is a lovely person and you are a lovely person. You two will make a fine match.”

At least Sansa prays they will be. Gods, she truly does. She never knew Robb's wife in the other life, only learning of Jeyne Westerlings death at the hands of the Lannisters long after the fact. She can only hope that this marriage will be better, and happier and not the ultimate cause of Robb's death.

“We have barely talked.” Robb says quietly. “Lady Meera and I.”

Sansa smiles. “But I have talked much with her and she is clever and kind and brave.”

“I just don't understand why the marriage could not have waited a few more years.” Robb sighs, standing up and moving to the chair where his finest clothes are laid out.

Sansa watches him for a few moments in silence, gathering her thoughts. “Times are changing, Robb. You are Father's heir and we need to secure the line of inheritance. Who knows what will happen? Father could die tomorrow and what would happen then?”

Robb stares at her, mouth slightly agape. “Dear Gods, Sansa. Is this all you think of all day?”

Sansa smiles, though she suspects it does not look all too happy. “You will marry Meera today and if the Gods are just, you will soon have children. I am sure I too will be betrothed soon and that is the way it goes.”

Robb doesn't respond, moving to put on his clothes. It is not long until midday and together they make their way to the Godswood slowly and in compete silence. Robb keeps wringing his hands on the way and Sansa hides a fond smile when she notices.

Sansa notices the stillness of the Godswood as soon as she steps into it. There are no tears on the Heart Tree today and the weather has cleared rather suddenly after a week of early autumn storms, but the entire Godswood is decked in a cover of snow. It swallows every louder sound and so Sansa can almost feel the Gods being as close as they had been after the Wall fell. It can only be a good omen, Sansa thinks faithfully.

Mother waits at the Heart Tree, making last minute preparations, when they arrive. She beams when she notices the two of them, coming forward to cup Robb's face with tears in her eyes. “Oh darling, you look wonderful.” Mother says, voice shaking, and she embraces him. Robb flushes, but he holds her tightly and, Gods, Sansa is suddenly reminded how _young_ her brother truly is.

Sansa looks around in the Godswood. She catches Roose Bolton staring at Robb and Mother with a thunderous expression on his face. He is clearly not the only one not happy about this marriage, Sansa realizes as she looks around. Mayhaps they should have waited until after the Free Folk settled in the North. Or best, if Meera and Robb had married long before the men left for the North. Suddenly, Sansa wishes nothing more than to have her father here. He would know what to do, what to say to the Lords to get them out of their collective ill temper.

She approaches the Heart Tree, resting a hand on the white bark.

_Protect my family. Protect my brothers, my sister, my mother and father. Protect the North from all the Evil to come. Protect the North from the political games of the South. Protect us this day and all the days to come._

“Sansa?” Bran's little voice rips Sansa out of her prayer and she looks down at her little brother with a small smile. Bran is dressed in his best clothing, an expression of nervous dread on his little face. “Are you alright?”

“I am, Bran.” Sansa nudges Bran's cheek with a finger. “You?”

“Nervous.” Bran tells her honestly. “Maester Luwin went through the words with me, but what if I mess them up?”

“Do you know them by heart?” Sansa asks him.

“Yes!” Bran says, nodding fervently.

“Then you will not mess up.”

Sansa looks up when a horn is sounded rather suddenly. Meera Reed stands at the entrance of the Godswood with her father, brother and mother. She looks lovely, dressed in a vibrantly green dress that looks summerly in the snow-covered Godswood.

Sansa quickly takes her place and she isn't surprised when Mother takes her hand. Only Robb and Bran stay standing before the Heart Tree and Sansa turns to see Lady Meera and Lord Howland approach the Heart Tree. Meera seems nervous but she has a strong smile on her face as she comes to a stand opposite of Robb.

“Who comes before the Gods this day?” Bran says, voice strong and words practiced.

 

*

 

The wedding moves along without a hitch and the feast ends up being a bigger success than Sansa could have ever hopes. The more ale is poured, the more the Lords are brought from their sulk and soon half of the assembled nobles are dancing to the quick fire Northern dances.

Sansa sits at the high Table, watching over the crowd with a small smile on her face. For the first time since the surprising news Robb had brought from the North, she no longer has the horrible feeling that something terrible would happen any moment. For the first time in over a fortnight Sansa feels as though she can breath properly again.

Meera and Robb seem happy as well, sending the other shy smiles and feeding bites off of their own plate. It is horribly sweet and Sansa prays that the sweetness lasts beyond this day.

“Disgusting.” Arya mumbles, her eyes fixed on Robb and Meera. Sansa snorts, immediately horrified that the sound actually came out of her mouth. Arya looks at her with undisguised glee, breaking out into peals of laughter.

“Shut up.” Sansa mumbles with a flushed face. Arya only laughs harder and Sansa feels a rush of incredible fondness for her sister. Sansa looks back down at the assembled nobles and she smiles as she watches Jeyne being twirled around by one of the Karstark boys.

“Lady Sansa.”

Sansa looks up in surprise, seeing Smalljon Umber standing before her with a big smile on his face. “Would you join me for a dance, my lady?” Smalljon asks and he holds out a hand for her to take.

Sansa's eyes skip over to Arya and Mother for a short moment before standing. “Of course, Lord Jon. It would be an honor.”

He smiles at that, brightly, and Sansa wonders how drunken Smalljon is already. Sansa takes his hand as they make their way to the dancing floor where a loud, fast northern song plays. Mother had expressly told the bard to play only northern songs today, but Sansa wishes they would play something slower now. She has never been the most talented at northern dancing, as northern songs and dances had quick tempos and heavy beats and while the dances were fun, they were also truly exhausting.

Old Nan once said it was Queen Val, wife of King Jorah the Winterwarmer, so many thousand years ago, who had invented the Winter Dances with her daughters to keep Winterfell and Winter's Town from freezing during a dreadful winter. Old Nan said it was tradition to dance since then, to warm their blood and to shatter the ice that sometimes built on the floors during the death of winter with their stomping. Sansa isn't sure if she believes Old Nan's tale, but Sansa cannot deny that northern dances warmed the blood more than any southern dances did.

Sansa stands at the sidelines of the dancing floor with Lord Jon until the current song ends and they mix under the already dancing partners. The bards play two chords and Sansa concentrates before they all stomp their feet twice, shouting “aye” and then the song starts in proper.

The Smalljon is a fine dancer, twirling Sansa around in time to the music and she doesn't bump into anyone else as is usually the case in these kinds of dances. They don't speak, for which Sansa is grateful as she feels the exhaustion already coming upon her. She smiles at him as best she can, trying to keep up with the steps, but she is honestly grateful when the song is over and she makes her apologies carefully. Smalljon doesn't seem to upset, seeking out another partner immediately, and Sansa makes her way out of the Great Hall.

The shock of the icy winters air stops Sansa short for a moment as she exits the Hall. The guards at the doors nod at her, and Sansa smiles at them in response. There is no one else in the courtyard as she makes her way to the opposite end, slipping into the nearest stall to catch her breath. As soon as she feels far enough away from the entrance, she exhales heavily, closing her eyes and relishing in the silence.

Gods, she cannot wait for father to come home. No one expected of Sansa to help Mother and Bran as much as she had these past months, but still Sansa feels the toll of everyone's expectations on her shoulders.

“Lady Sansa?”

Sansa looks up and swallows a sound of surprise as she recognizes Lord Soren Magnar, the Skagosi Lord that had come to Winterfell for the talks. She had kept an eye on him since the night he had surprised her and Theon in the kennels, but she had honestly thought he had left for Skagos long ago.

“Lord Magnar.” Sansa says, with a polite smile. “Are you enjoying the wedding feast?”

“It is very educational.” The Lord says.

As Sansa had noticed the first time she saw him, he towers over her – his width at least 3 times hers – and Sansa wonders if she should call for the guards as he steps closer. “How are the people of Skagos preparing for the Long Winter?” Sansa asks instead.

Lord Magnar pauses, and he takes a step away from her. “Do the Starks care or are you only asking?”

“We care.” Sansa says firmly. “We care about all human life.”

He laughs, leaning close to Sansa's ear and whispers: “You are lucky you are so earnest, little girl.”

“Pardon?” Sansa asks, stunned. How brave, she thinks, to speak to the daughter of his Lord like that.

“Starkfolk have not cared for Skagossons for a thousand years, little Starkling.” Magnar says.

It reminds her of what he had said the last time they met, that Starks had still been warging regularly when Skagossons had joined the North. Sansa wonders what it is exactly he thinks to accomplish with his words. “All Northmen are welcome at Winter's Town during High Winter. No Skagosi has ever come. Starkfolk do care about Skagossons, but if Skagossons do no wish for us to care about them we will not. We have enough other vassals to care about.”

He laughs, loudly and it surprises Sansa into complete silence. “Oh Lady Sansa, don't believe all tales your maester tells you.”

“I am not sure what you mean, Lord Magnar.”

He laughs again. It is a bitter and ugly sound. “Do you know what Magnar means in the Old Tongue?”

“Lord.”

“Aye girl. Lord. My family earned the title of “Magnar” when Starkfolk came to Skagos thousands of years ago. Eventually you Mainlanders lost the Old Tongue and since you have been calling us Lord Lords.”

“So you take offense to being called a Lord?” Sansa asks.

“Do you even know why you lost the Old Tongue?” He asks. “And when?”

“After the Andals invaded the Citadel unified the languages of the realm, creating what we call the common tongue today.” Sansa recites. It is a topic Maester Luwin spoke of often during their lessons.

“But why did the Starks lose the Old Tongue?” Lord Magnar asks.

“I am not sure what you are asking, my lord.” Sansa asks honestly. She does not know what he is trying to accomplish.

“Why did the Starks forget the tongue of their people while claiming the Andals did not invade their lands?”

Sansa pauses, unable to respond. She does not know. She has never even thought about it, not even when Rickon returned from his time on Skagos speaking only the Old Tongue. She even remembers the pitying looks of the ladies in King's Landing when Sansa's kingslander accent slipped to reveal the Northern accent underneath. Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane had taught her the Common Tongue and even Valyrian, but she did not speak a word of the Old Tongue.

Lord Magnar smiles at her. It isn't an unkind smile this time, but rather a patient one. “Have you thought about how you will speak with the Wildlings living on your lands? Many do not speak a whisper of the Common Tongue.”

Sansa looks away from him. She had not in fact thought about that either.

“I said before it is a sign of the gods that the wolves have returned to the south.” Lord Magnar continues. “I believe you mean well, Lady Sansa, that you care. But I do not think you know how the mainland will change if you continue on this path.”

“I'd rather the North change than have a hundred thousand corpses playing willing host for the Others on the other side of the Wall.” Sansa tells him, fiercely.

“I believe you care, Lady Sansa.” He repeats himself. “I have a daughter, Thyra. She speaks the Old Tongue as well as any Skagosson or Wildling. Let her teach you and earn the respect of the Wildlings.”

Sansa looks at the man standing across from her and she wonders if this is a trick or a jest. He looks earnest and his offer seems sincere but Sansa doesn't know the Lord, nor does she trust him. “You would send your daughter to Winterfell only to teach me and my family the Old Tongue?”

“Only you.” He interrupts her. “She would teach only you the Old Tongue.”

“My brothers need to know the Old Tongue as much as I do.” Sansa says immediately. She does agree with Lord Magnar's arguments that the Starks should know the Old Tongue, especially now, but what sense is there to only teach Sansa since she will probably go marry someone soon.

“This is my daughter. Accept her into your service and she'd teach you.” Lord Magnar says. “And she is at Winterfell already.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. She had not even heard a whisper about a woman from Skagos among the townspeople, so either Lord Magnar had been hiding her or she arrived just in the past few days.

“I sent for her after our first conversation in the kennels.” Lord Magnar says, as if understanding Sansa's hesitation. “Thyra is a warg herself, my lady. She has a companion and she could aid you in gaining control over your abilities.”

“So you believe me to be a warg.” Sansa asks, voice carefully controlled despite her wildly beating heart. No one outside their immediate family and servants knew anything about the warging abilities of herself and her siblings. After all what would their bannermen say if their Bannerlords suddenly ended up being the monsters of the tales parents told their children about at night.

“Oh don't worry, girl. Wargs are special. Starkfolk were Wargs for thousands of years and it is a sign of the Gods.” Lord Magnar says. “My Thyra is special too and if the Gods are returning to the mainland and to Winterfell she can help in all you wish to achieve.”

“Bring her to me tomorrow and I'll decide then.” Sansa says eventually. She does not trust Lord Magnar, and she does not know why he wants to give his daughter to Winterfell, but she knows he is correct about them needing to speak the old tongue as well.

Lord Magnar looks at her with amusement. “Very well, Lady Stark.” He bows, in a deep exaggerated version of the common one, and Sansa watches him disappear into the dark shadows of the castle. She shivers in the cold wind of the early autumn night and breathes in and out several times. Steadying herself, she makes her way back into the Great Hall, greeting the guards on her way in.

 

*

 

Sansa wakes up the next morning with an ache in her head. The Hall is already filled when she arrives to break her fast, and Mother smiles at her as she arrives. Robb and Meera too are present, and they talk in quiet whispers among st each other. Robb looks up as she approaches and Sansa smiles at him fondly. As she sits, she scans the Great Hall.

It is noisy and full, as has been the norm for what feels like the past two months. Sansa smiles softly as she spots Jeyne surrounded by a gaggle of ladies of all ages, waving when Jeyne catches her eye. Jeyne waves back happily, before turning back to speak with Alys Karstark.

Sansa turns back to her mother then. “I want to take a few ladies south to the Tourney.” She says, surprising Mother enough that she just looks at Sansa for a while.

“What do you mean, Sansa?”

“Many Lords are not very happy about the Free Folk coming south. I believe we should curry favor amongst them as much as we can, and I believe it could be helpful if I take a few ladies as my lady companions for a while.” Sansa explains.

Mother nods thoughtfully. “Who do you have in mind?”

“One of the Manderly girls, their grandfather has always been loyal we should recognize that. Jeyne Umber as well. The Umbers have been surprisingly supportive and we should recognize that. Maybe Alys Karstark, since her father is very unhappy about the Free Folk living on Karstark lands if her wedding is not too soon. And I would ask Jeyne for any more recommendations.” Sansa looks down at the ladies and hopes she makes the right choices. She does not want to force any of them – that would lead to more discontent – but she believes both Alys Karstark and the Manderly girls would see it to be the honor that it is.

“I think it is a fine idea, Sansa.” Mother says. “I will write my brother to expect a few more ladies on the journey south.”

It takes Sansa half the day until she finds Jeyne alone and tells her of the idea. Jeyne smiles, thrilled, and immediately starts telling Sansa which ladies say what about the Starks.

Sansa has never felt more like Petyr's student.

“Which ladies would you say would see going south with me as an honor?” Sansa interrupts Jeyne gently.

“All of them, my lady.” Jeyne says immediately. “They like you very much, even Lady Dustin.”

Somehow Sansa very much doubts it, but she doesn't protest, asking Jeyne to assemble the few ladies in her solar. It doesn't take long before Sansa sits opposite of Wylla Manderly, Alys Karstark and Jenny Umber.

“And so I would be very honored if you would join me in the south for the Tourney at Highgarden.” Sansa finishes her little speech to them. She looks each of them in the eye and smiles.

It takes little time to convince them, and even less time to convince their families. Sansa meets with Soren Magnar the same day and Thyra, a lady nearly as tall as Brienne was in her last life and just as adventurous joins her as well. 3 days before they are to depart for the south, she and her ladies have found themselves in a easy rhythm. Sansa truly missed being around companions and she finds herself turning to each of them for a different reason.

Wylla Manderly braids the most wonderful hair, chattering all the while. Jenny Umber tells the most wondrous stories, tales of Northmen of Old before the Andals invaded and of legends even Old Nan has not heard of yet. Even Arya likes them all, more than Sansa could have wished for, and Sansa is sure they will all get along well in the south.

Alys Karstark, bless her heart, helps Sansa with her duties in the castle, and so she is with Sansa when they hear the news of father's arrival. Rickon runs into the room, nearly tumbling as he trips and he runs up to her with a big grin on his face. “FATHER!”

Sansa drops everything and grabs Rickon and together they race down the stairs and into the main courtyard. She isn't the last to arrive, but the others are already assembled and Sansa swaps a stunned and happy look with Arya.

Father had not been set to arrive for at least another 3 days, but they had also not received another letter in almost a week so something must have changed.

“Mother.” Sansa says, all her questions focused on that one word.

“A scout saw them 2 hours out.” Mother answers her and Sansa's heart speeds up. “And the party was just spotted coming from the Wolfswood.”

“Oh thank the Gods.” Sansa whispers. She had hoped to see Father again before leaving for the South with Arya and Bran, but she hadn't really believed it. Someone grabs her hand and squeezes it tight and she looks up at Robb's smiling face.

It takes another few minutes where they all wait impatiently, but finally the Gate opens and Father, dressed in giant and mounting furs, rides through. A force follows him through, riders dressed in the same furs and some less finely dressed Sansa knows to identify as the Free Folk. She looks at them for a familiar face, but is distracted when Father dismounts quickly. He rushes towards Mother, gathering her in a large embrace. Sansa feels tears rising in her eyes, but she tries to blink them away as quickly as she can. Father puts a hand on Mother's still flat belly and he presses a kiss on her cheek, before gathering Robb in an embrace. They are both dwarfed by Father's furs and Sansa blinks away the tears as Mother starts crying. Rickon races forward and throws himself around Father's legs and a gloved hand runs through his hands.

Finally, Sansa cries when her father finally wraps her in his arms. She hides her face in his shoulder and he whispers quiet nothings into her ear and she suppresses a sob. Thank the Gods, he made it home safe and that is all Sansa could wish for these past months.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry. uni is a lot more stressful than i thought possible.  
> the content in this chapter was originally supposed to span at least 3 more chapters but it did not work out as i planned so i cut a lot of things. sorry if the pacing is off completely, but i thought it best if i get over this part and then continue rather than rewrite one chapter that would only cover the first third of this about 10000000x times.


	13. Winterfell - 299, Pt. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Reunions And Revelations

 

 

 

 

Father sits in the warmest chair in the solar, drinking hot, mulled cider. He seems content and warm, as he looks up at Mother who stands beside him and the small bump of her belly seems much more pronounced than usual.

Sansa watches her family interact in silence as long as she is able to, basking in the warmth of it. For the moment, she can even ignore Jon missing from the picture.

“Tell me what has happened in the moons I have been gone.” Father asks of them, his voice low and deep and it grumbles deep in Sansa's soul. They tell him, slowly and Father looks at her with pride in his eyes when Mother tells him of how Sansa had helped her. The paternal pride warms Sansa in a way she cannot remember it ever having before.

“So Bran, Arya and Sansa are leaving in 3 days?” Father asks softly. He smiles. “I am so glad I could see you before you leave.”

Sansa has the overwhelming urge to blurt out that she does not want to leave, but she only smiles. “The Lord Hand was very insistent we come south.” She looks over at Mother. “It will be a wonderful opportunity to see our grandfather and uncle again.”

“Jon knows not to ask me to come south.” Father exhales heavily. “Did you keep the letter?”

Mother frowns. “I believe so.” She looks over at Sansa. “Sansa, would you be a dear?”

Sansa quickly makes her way down the hallway to her mother's solar and fetches the letter. She is gone less than a few minutes, thanking the Gods for her mother's tendency to organize rather stringently. Father's eyebrows rise as he reads through the content of the letter and Sansa holds her breath as she focuses all her attention on him. By the look on her Father's face something is wrong.

“I will join you south.” Father's jaw moves under his dark hair. “It seems there is a lot to discuss with my former foster father.”

Sansa and her mother exchange looks – alarmed. “We did not see any hidden meaning in Lord Arryn's words.” Mother says.

Sansa takes the letter and rereads it.

  


_To Lord Eddard Stark, from the Lord Hand Jon Arryn:_

I pray to the Seven that you and your family are doing well. It has been long since we spoke last and even longer since we have seen a Stark Face in the south. It cannot be healthy for you to stay in the North, and it surely your children must see the South at least once in their lifetime. The Tyrell's are hosting a Tourney at Highgarden starting on the 1st day of the 6th moon of this year. Please do come, Ned.

Do you recall when you and I visited Ellen and her daughter in the Vale? Do you remember what you said to me then? I heard a sennight ago that Ellen has passed, sadly. She was too young, but alas. I have thought of fostering young Mya somewhere, but all accounts from the Vale say she is a happy, vibrant young woman and so I thought it best to keep her at her home.

We have also heard news of Jorah Mormont, the Slaver from Bear's Island. He died in the Dothraki Sea in the middle of last year, according to Varys he died protecting the Targaryen girl. I would ask if I should arrange for the bones to be brought north, but, again, according to Varys the Targaryen Girl burnt them when he died.

On to more pressing matter, I know you wrote about the increase in Wildling Raids on the Northern Border of your Lands, asking for more men for the watch. I wrote the other kingdoms for support and a group of a hundred men are marching for the Wall as I write this letter. Should you come south, perhaps we can find a solution for the financing of the wall.

**Jon Arryn.**

 

She still does not see whatever has just alarmed her father so much.

“What is wrong?” Mother asks again.

Father's jaw ticks. “Lord Arryn and I. We spoke of paternity and legitimacy when we visited Ellen and Mya.”

Sansa's heart drops.

“Mya is Robert's daughter-” Father continues but Sansa cannot concentrate on his voice. If Jon Arryn had coded the words for Father to know, then he surely knew of Joff's paternity. Well of course he did. Now, Sansa wonders why she had just assumed Jon Arryn would not continue investigating even if he jumped off the cliff of death in this life. According to all accounts, Jon Arryn was a man of extreme honor. He would not let the cuckolding of his beloved King take place.

Sansa sits upright and takes a deep, steadying breath. “Father! I need to talk with you and Mother.” She announces, interrupting Father in whatever he had been saying. “It is very important.”

They all look at her, all the members of her so beloved family, and Sansa looks steadily at her father. She will tell him. She must. She cannot let him go south unprepared, not in this.

“Sansa, what is the matter?” Father asks.

Sansa stands up, mind almost blank in the starting stages of a panic. “Arya, Bran, Rickon leave.” She orders. Arya starts to protest, a mulish expression on her face, but one pleading look stops her short.

Arya grabs Rickon by the waist. “Come on Bran.” She says softly.

A rush of love and fondness for her sister flushes Sansa's heart, and she breathes out in relief. She will tell Arya and Bran and Rickon someday, but that day is not today.

“Sansa, what-?” Mother asks, confusion clear in her voice.

Father stands up now, towering over Sansa and she looks up with apprehension. “What is going on Sansa?”

She takes several, steadying breaths and closes her eyes. A part of her does not want to tell them, afraid of their reactions, but she knows it is necessary now. She had hoped she would never have to tell them, quietly changing everything wrong about her previous life, but perhaps that had been folly. It was.

Forgive me Jon, Sansa thinks as she readies herself. “I need to tell you something very important and it is essential that you listen. You will not want to believe what I tell you, but I swear to you and the Gods, both Old and New, that all I tell you is the absolute truth.”

“Sansa-” Mother starts, but Sansa interrupts her again.

“Please sit, Father.” She says firmly. “And Robb, come closer.”

Her big brother looks at her with big eyes, but complies. Eventually the three of them sit together in front of her and Sansa takes another deep breath and starts her story. “I know what Jon Arryn wishes to speak with you at Highgarden about as I have lived this life before.”

“Pardo-” Robb says, quizzically.

Sansa raises a finger to silence him. “No interruptions please. This is a long story.” She says firmly. “As I said, I have lived this life before. When I was 12, the King and his court came to the North after Jon Arryn's death to ask for you, Lord Stark, to be Hand of the King. Arya and I joined you in the south and I was betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon.”

“I was unaware of it at the time, but Father, you started investigating what killed Jon Arryn and stumbled onto the false paternity of Joffrey Baratheon. Before you could tell the King, he was killed and Joffrey executed you on the charges of treason.”

“Sansa!” Mother gasps. “This is a fanciful tal-”

“This isn't a tale, Mother!” Sansa protests immediately. “This was my life, and it was horrible.”

Father's voice is unbearably gentle when he says: “Sansa, this is a wonderful story and I applaud you for coming up with it but I have other things to attend to today.”

“This isn't a story!” Sansa says, voice rising slightly. Gods, she went about this all wrong. She wants nothing more than to have Jon by her side for this part. “Please.”

“Sansa-”

“You must have noticed how different I am!” Sansa says desperately, looking Mother in the eye. “I woke up shortly after my eleventh birthday.”

Mother and Father exchange a look and eventually Mother sighs. “Sansa I don't know what you are trying to say.”

“I am telling you what happened!” Sansa feels the panic rising in her chest. Her heart is thundering against her ribs and she feels ill. What if they don't believe her, don't let her finish! She cannot let Father walk into the south unprepared!

Robb clears his throat. “Perhaps we should let Sansa finish talking.” He says softly. There is a troubled expression on his face.

“Thank you.” Sansa says, relieved. “As I was saying, I returned shortly after my eleventh birthday. By my count I was close to my 18th name day by then. We were evacuating Winterfell when something happened – I still do not know what – and the ground split and Jon and I fell into it.”

“Jon?!” Mother asks bitterly.

Sansa swallows. “Jon is also back. We are back here together and we have been trying to change things.”

Father stands up and gently approaches Sansa. “Darling. You have to slow down.” He gently leads her towards the closest chair and makes her sit. “I do not understand what you are trying to tell us.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, sorting her thoughts. Then she starts talking: “I have lived a life before which was terrible, and I think I died when I was 18 years old. None of you were alive anymore and humanity was dying at the hands of the Others.”

Silence rings in the room.

Sansa looks at the members of her family and pulls herself upright. “After the war of the Five Kings, the Westerlands and Riverlands were decimated and the houses Lannister and Tully as good as gone. The Arryn's too died in the male line, and here in the North Jon and I fought hard to reconquer Winterfell from the Bolton's who had taken it from us. A new Targaryen sat on the throne in King's Landing, though she ruled over little lands in true. She died in the fight against the Others as well. We sent over a hundred thousand men to the Wall to fight the Others and by Jon's count less than 2 thousand survived. We were dying, all of us, and then I woke up here at 11 and Jon did as well. We saved Jon Arryn's life with pure chance and I believe we also changed other things I cannot even begin to understand now.”

Mother opens her mouth to say something, before shutting it again. Robb too is only staring, blankly at a spot just over Sansa's head. Father looks horrified, and Sansa wonders if there is a little part of him that believes her.

She presses on. “If Jon were here he could tell you exactly how much we have already changed for the Free Folk, but I'll do my best anyways. They attacked the wall last time around and most of them died. Those who didn't were let through the wall by Jon, who was voted Lord Commander, and they settled in the Gift. They were some of Jon's most trusted Lieutenants while we were taking back Winterfell and ended up joining the Watch in the fight against the Others.”

“Which is why he knew so much while we were North about the Wildl- Free Folk and their culture.” Robb says, understanding in his voice.

Sansa looks at him, surprised, and smiles. “Yes. He lived with them for a while as well. They are good people. I knew some of them very well.”

“It was Jon's idea to go speak with Mance Raydar.” Father says lowly. “I had wondered about that.”

Sansa nods. “He let them past the Wall in our last life as well. He was killed for it but it was the right thing to do.”

“Pardon me?” Father chokes out, surprised. “He was killed?”

“And resurrected by a R'hollor priestess.” Sansa winces. Mayhaps she shouldn't have told them about that part.

“Pardon?”

“She believed him to be the Prince that was -” Sansa trails off. Oh. She had forgotten about that. She looks over at her father and inhales. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Mother echoes, puzzled.

Sansa looks at her father and takes a deep breath, begging for his and Jon's forgiveness. “We know about Jon's mother as well.”

Father draws back, inhaling sharply. Mother's head snaps over to look at her husband and Robb too looks at Father with a stunned expression. “Sansa-”

“You should have told someone.” Sansa says, trying not to sound scolding. “If only Mother and Uncle Benjen.” It sounds scolding.

“Sansa-”

“Tell us.” Mother says sharply. “How do you know? And why does Jon Snow know?”

Sansa's jaw clenches and she worries at her lip. “We were told by Howland Reed when he came to Winterfell after I was crowned.” She looks over at Father, who sinks into himself at the name of his old friend. “He thought it prudent that we knew since the Dragons had just taken King's Landing from Cersei and her men.”

“Who?” Mother asks, voice cold.

Father gives Sansa an almost unnoticeable nod. Sansa begs Jon for forgiveness and says: “Lyanna Stark bore a son in the south.”

“Lyanna Star-” Mother echoes. Her face falls and she looks over at Father with horror on her face. “He is your sisters?”

“Cat-” Father starts, but Mother cuts him off with a hand.

“Jon Snow is the son of your sister.” She repeats. “And the son of Rhaegar Targaryen?”

“Yes.”

“And you hid him from the Crown, from the Faith and from everyone.”

“Yes.”

“Why?!” Mother asks loudly. “Why would you do that?”

“Cat-”

“If Robert found out Jon Snow was the son of the last Dragon, and you hid it from him …” Mother trails off. “Ned! Do you have any idea how dangerous the Bastard could be to our children?”

“Jon isn't dangerous!” Sansa protests immediately. “He does not wish to take the rule away from any of us!”

“All Bastards are dangerous to the rule of their true born siblings, Sansa.” Mother says, voice cold as the icy winter storms. “Especially if these bastards might take the iron throne.”

“Mother that isn't fair, Jon isn't-” Robb starts.

“No Robb!” Mother interrupts him. “Your father could be tried and executed for treason because he hid Snow from King Robert. And the King would do so in a heartbeat.”

“You are being cruel, mother.” Sansa says. “Jon is not here to defend himself and he would never do anything to harm us. He refused the crown some of the northern Lords offered him when we took back Winterfell. He knew it was mine by birthright and he said no to it. Jon would never do anything to harm us, or Winterfell, or the North.”

“The Crown?” Robb interrupts Mother's reply. “Why would you be offered the Crown? The Starks haven't been kings in three hundred years.”

Sansa looks over at Robb and smiles fondly. “And you were the first in three hundred years. The first King of Winter, crowned by the men of the North. The North declared her independence from the 7 Kingdoms when King Joffrey executed our Lord Father.”

“Was I a good King?” Robb asks.

Sansa smiles softly. “By all accounts you were a good and just King.”

“But-”

“You died less than a year after being crowned. I never actually saw you as a King.”

Robb swallows heavily at that, looking down at his feet. “Do you know why I was killed?”

Sansa feels a rush of love for her big brother who is still so so young. “You were betrayed by one of our own. They broke the guest right and got what they deserved.”

“Oh.” Robb looks so young. “But why did they betray me?”

“Not for a reason that would happen today.” Sansa says gently. “You were supposed to marry one of their daughters and did not. In addition to that they thought it would ensure their survival to align themselves with the Lannisters.” She smiles at the memory of Walder Frey's face when Sansa arrived with her Vale Army. “It did not.”

They stare at her. “So you believe me?” Sansa asks.

“Sansa you have to understand that this is hard to believe.” Father says gently. “It is too fantastical.”

“I believe her.” Mother and Robb say simultaneously.

Mother still sounds so angry when she continues: “There is no other way she could have learned of Snow's parentage.”

“Catelyn-” Father pauses. “There is more to the story-”

Mother interrupts him angrily. “No, Lord Stark. There was a time I had hoped almost that Snow is the Bastard of Brandon, Gods knows your brother whored around enough. But this, my lord, is much worse. You put our whole family in danger before it even existed.”

“Catelyn-”

“You are being unfair mother!” Robb stops her. “Jon is our brother. He might not be, but he is.”

“No Robb I am not being unfair.” Mother says icily. “I am the only person in this room taking care to ensure the survival of our family. Jon Snow should never have been part of it.”

Sansa rears back as if Mother had hit her. She could never have believed her mother to be so unkind, Sansa thinks, as she stares at the woman she had adored for so long and still did. Even after returning, Sansa turned a blind eye to her Mother's cruelty towards Jon. “Stop it Mother!” Sansa says, standing up abruptly. “Jon has done nothing to deserve your ire. His parentage is not a thing Jon could control and he does not want the crown or the iron throne. All Jon wants is for his family, us, to be safe. You have no idea what he has done for me, for our family, for our home. I understand that you were shamed by Father, but you cannot blame Jon for any of it. By my calculations there are exactly 2 people not in this room who also know of Jon's parentage and one of those is Jon. The other has kept this secret for almost 17 years and he will not start telling people now. I trust the Reeds with my life, and all of yours, and you should too. No one will find out!”

Mother gapes at her and then after a moment her face falls. “Excuse me.” She stands and moves out of the room. Sansa watches her leave and her heart breaks. She never wanted to alienate her mother, who is just as much a victim of the whole story as all of them. The door falls shut loudly behind her mother and Sansa flinches when it does, before she turns back to Father and Robb.

Robb smiles, though it does not seem happy.

“Father?” Sansa asks, voice small. “Do you believe me?”

He exhales heavily. “Sansa. I am trying to.” He shakes his head. The agony on his face is familiar to Sansa, who tries not to cry at the sight of it. “You need to tell me everything that happens.”

She tells them the whole sordid tale, with all the facts she knows and can remember, begging for Jon's forgiveness as she tells them the worst of what he did, and begging for her own forgiveness as she tells them the worst of what she did. When she is done, Robb and Father stare at her and there are tears in Robb's eyes.

“Oh darling.” Father stands up and cups Sansa's face. She starts sobbing then, so relieved and sad and just so so ready for everything to be over. Father pulls her closer, running a soft hand over her back and Robb approaches her as well, embracing her as well. It takes her too long to compose herself again, Petyr would be horrified, but when she does her father smiles at her and all seems brighter.

“Oh Sansa. I wish you had told me a year and a half ago. Why didn't you?”

“I never wanted to tell you any of it!” Sansa admits. “I had hoped none of it would ever happen.”

Father looks down at her softly. “You are still so young.”

“I am past twenty name days old.” Sansa protests.

“Oh darling. That is so young.” He smiles sadly. “I thought I was old with twenty as well, but it is not. It is so young. I could have helped you.”

Sansa nods. Perhaps, in hindsight, they should have told him, but it is too late now. Should she be forced to return again, she would do it differently, but if the Gods are kind they would not force her to experience such a thing again.

“I will come south with you.” Father announces. “I believe I have to speak with Lord Arryn.”

Sansa's heart drops. All she can think of is her father's head falling from his body. Nothing good has ever happened to Starkfolk in the South. “Why?”

“If Joffrey truly is the seed of Jaime Lannister then Jon needs- Jon Arryn needs all the help he can get.” Father says. “And you Sansa should not have to go through it all alone.”

“I wasn't alone.” Sansa says softly.

“But Jon isn't here at this moment. He is still in the North.”

“I also assembled a few lady companions.” Sansa admits. “They will be by Arya and my side while we are in the south.”

“I am still joining you as well. Please write Lord Edmure that he no longer has to chaperon you.” Father says.

“Perhaps we should not do so immediately after Mother feels humiliated by you.” Sansa objects.

Father sighs. “Politics is useless.”

It is not, Sansa thinks sadly. If he had been a little better at it, perhaps he would not have lost his head. “I'll write Uncle Edmure that you will be joining us and ask if they still wish to join us.”

“Talk to your mother before you do.” Father says. “And Sansa-”

“Yes?”

“I am glad you told me.”

“I am too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I have been writting since I first started plotting this story! 
> 
> (and a reminder that I love Catelyn Stark with all my heart)


	14. Letters - 299, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Letters And Conversations

 

  
  


_To Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark, from Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark:_

Father arrived at Winterfell the day before last. He informed me that Jon Arryn wished to speak of Joff's father with our father. I decided to tell Robb, Mother and Father about everything we know. I hope you forgive me doing so without asking for your permission. Father only believed me, after I told him of your mother. Please forgive me, Jon.

I am afraid you will not get the warmest welcome by my Mother when you return, she did not take any of it well. Robb has promised he will run interference with mother as best he can, should you come back home earlier than I do.

Father, Arya, Bran and I are leaving for Highgarden together in the morrow and should you wish to respond to this letter please send the letter to Riverrun. I hope you fare well, **Sansa.**

  
  


*

  
  


Arya sits sullenly by the side of the fireplace, poking at the fire with a stick. Sparks fly out and Sansa takes care of her bone dry dress as she approaches her sister. They are only a day's ride away from Riverrun and Sansa needs to discuss her worries with her sister before they arrive.

“Arya.” Sansa lays a hand on Arya's shoulder and she takes it back immediately as her sister flinches. “Arya. Please look at me.” She waits until Arya turns the full force of her glare towards Sansa.

“What?” Arya spits out.

Sansa gingerly takes a seat by her sister's side and leads her hands away from the poker. “I would like to speak to you of what will be awaiting us in the south.” Sansa leans forward to catch Arya's eye. “The south is not like the north. It is a dangerous place filled with people who crave power and control.”

“Sansa, wha-”

“You cannot trust anyone once we are in the south.” Sansa continues. “Guard your tongue and watch what you say. There are men who can twist a single word into a different word entirely.”

Arya stares up at her and she looks off to the side.

“I do not ask you to change who you are Arya.” Sansa says, gently. “I only ask for you to be proper where people of the south can see. We cannot allow them to see any problems within the north, we must present a strong front.”

“Is this why you and Father have been having secret meetings alone?” Arya asks, quietly. Her jaw clenches.

Sansa smiles at her little sister and runs a hand over her back. “One of the reasons.” She says honestly. “Arya, we do not wish to exclude you.”

Arya scoffs. “You are.”

“Would you like to spend hours discussing how best to treat with House Tyrell for grain for the winter?” Sansa asks Arya, incredulously. She had, of course, noticed the anger Arya hedged for her and Father during the journey south. Bran cared little about it, however Arya did. “Or with House Greyjoy for ships?” Arya makes a face at that. “That is what I thought.”

Arya ducks her head. “You barely talk to me. Father barely talks to me. Bran chases after Jory Cassel and your ladies do not talk with me when you are not there.” Her words are angry now. “I wish I had stayed home, with Nymeria.”

Sansa's heart sinks as she looks at her little, lonely sister. Despite her best efforts, Arya still does not feel welcome, or like she belongs. “All will be different once we come south.”

“Why?”

“Because I will need your help then.” Sansa smiles at Arya. “For we are of the North and we do not want the Southerners to think we are anything less.”

“What does that mean?”

Sansa's smiles turns a little sharper. “I do not jest Arya, when I say the South is dangerous. We need to make it certain it does not think of the north as any kind of threat.”

“Why?” Arya asks. “Why would they think of us as a threat?”

“That is for me to worry about.” Sansa assures her sister. “But I cannot do so, if I am worried about you. And I know you can take care of yourself, so I would rather not worry about you so I need you to take care of who you trust while we are in the south.”

Arya looks up at her, and there is a small smile on her face. “All right.” She says softly. “I'll be careful.”

Sansa cups Arya's cheek and smiles down at her. “Good.”

  
  


*

  
  


_To Sansa Stark, from Catelyn Stark:_

My dear, I apologize for not listening to you before you left Winterfell. Now that a few days have passed, I regret my actions. I should never have become so angry at you. You are my daughter and I know you. You would never lie to us. Robb has told me some of what you experienced, and showed me the scrolls you gave him. I am so sorry you had to experience so much horrors. As a mother, the worst thing that can happen is harm falling to our children – mayhaps one day you will understand that as well. I pray to the Gods, Old and New, that you find it in your heart to forgive your mother. With all the love in the world, **Catelyn Tully Stark.**

  
  


*

  
  


_To Catelyn Stark, from Sansa Stark:_

Of course I forgive you. I am sorry too for leaving before we could have a real talk.

We arrived at Riverrun yestereve and Lord Tully and Lord Edmure were most welcoming. They hosted a large feast in our honor and introduced us, as your children, to their bannermen. Lord Tully as well was very joyed about the doublet you gave him and he has begged us to send all his love and wishes to you. Lord Edmure has received you letter, I expect he will write you soon as well.

We have discovered Bran loves Uncle Brynden. He has spent this entire morning with him in the yard, and Uncle Brynden is teaching him his best moves. Arya too is very happy, she went down to the Rivers with Lord Edmure this morning to look at the fish Uncle Edmure promised her. I am sure she will return with mud in her hair. Father and Lord Tully have been talking all since breakfast. I am not with one of your family – writing this letter to you instead.

We will be leaving Riverrun in 3 days and will be taking the River Road to Lannisport first, then the Ocean Road to Highgarden. Lord Edmure has promised stunning sights and beautiful views. Should the weather allow it we will arrive a half week before the tourney. Give my greatest love to Rickon and Robb. **Sansa**

  
  


*

  
  


Sansa stares up at Thyra, not comprehending a single word she speaks. It is their dozenth lesson already and with every passing one Sansa feels dimmer than before. Despite her best efforts, learning the Old Tongue is a more arduous process than she would have thought possible.

Of course it does not help, she thinks frustrated, that Thyra speaks solely in the Old Tongue whenever they are in their lessons – refusing to translate even a sentence. “How else will you learn a language, if you do not hear it spoken?” Thyra had said when Sansa complained after the first lesson, but still she cannot understand.

Outside her lessons, Sansa has grown to like Thyra very much, liking the older woman's quiet humor and biting wit. Thyra is different from the northerners Sansa is used to, but still very much of the north. Her rather unique view on many of the issues Sansa discusses with her ladies has lead to many squabbles indeed, especially with Alys Karstark, but it is that unique view Sansa values the most.

“I do not understand.” Sansa says, frustrated, feeling rather like Arya when she spills her emotions without caring for perception. Thyra only smirks in response and Sansa feels the call to violence she gets so rarely. “How is this helping?”

Thyra sighs, shaking her head. She says a single sentence, before repeating it slower and Sansa turns the words over and over in her mind. She recognizes some: you, me and some variation of the verb hear.

“You hear me?” She guesses.

Thyra laughs and repeats herself very slowly. You something variation of hear me something something. Sansa clenches her hands on the reign of her horse, and almost sighs out loud in relief when her uncle, Lord Edmure, rides up to her and Thyra.

“Sansa. Lady Thyra.” He greets them both. “Are you willing to ride a little further today?”

“Of course, Lord Uncle.” Sansa smiles at him. They have not spoken much since departing from Riverrun a few days ago, but Sansa endeavors to get to know her uncle all over again. She had liked him in her past life, the man who had been so broken by his wedding but still shone with such faith and good nature. “How far are we from Lannisport?”

“3 to 4 days, depending on the conditions of the road ahead.” Lord Edmure answers surely. “The road gets swamped whenever the rivers flood, which can be very unpredictable.”

“Good.” Sansa smiles. “I wish to write my mother a letter.”

Lord Edmure smiles. “How is my sister?” He asks. “In truth? She wrote pretty words to our father, but I have known her all my life.”

“Well, I believe.” Sansa hopes she is, at least. “When we left she was worried, the North is preparing for war after all.”

The tick in Lord Edmure's jaw says it all. He does not believe any word they say about the Others. Why would he, Sansa thinks generously, after all they had not touched a single part of his life yet. One day, Lord Edmure too would know just how big of a threat the Others were to all of Westeros. “You are.” Lord Edmure says, slowly.

Thyra bristles beside Sansa. “You should be glad of it, Lord Tully.” She says sharply. “The Others would overrun all of your precious rivers and castl-”

“Thyra!” Sansa says sharply. There is no need to antagonize her uncle. “I apologize, Lord Uncle. The lands of Thyra's father would be one of the first to fall.”

“What lands are those?” Lord Edmure asks.

“Skagos, whose most northern tip lies further north than the Wall itself.” Thyra says, pride clear in her voice. Lord Edmure looks horrified, and Sansa knows immediately that even in the South the Skagossons do not have a good reputation. Thyra grins, though it resembles a wolf fletching its teeth more than a human smile. “Do not worry, Lord Tully. We only eat human flesh twice a year during the full moon.”

“Thyra.” Sansa cocks her head, back towards the others.

Without looking at Lord Edmure a second time. Thyra turns her horse around and rides away. Just before she is out of earshot she speaks: “You need to listen to me before you can understand.”

Of course, Sansa thinks, quirking a small smile.

“You should not allow her to speak to you like that.” Lord Edmure says lightly. “You are the daughter of her liege lord.”

“I am also her pupil, Lord Uncle.” Sansa tells him gently. “Thyra knows how much respect I deserve.”

“What does she teach you?” Lord Edmure asks.

Sansa smiles. “The Old Tongue, so I may be able to speak with the Free Folk without relying on interpretation.”

“The Free Folk-” There is an air of horror in Lord Edmure's voice as he repeats her words. “You wish to speak with the Wildlings. Of course you wish to speak to them. I cannot believe my sister did not put a stop to this madness.”

Sansa bristles against the disrespect in his tone. “I assure you, my lord. There is no madness to put a stop to.” He had been kinder before. “Would you not save people if you knew you could?”

Again, Lord Edmure frowns. “You all truly believe in this tale.” He says, with a tone of realization. “You all truly believe that creatures of Ice will come to the North.”

“They will not stop in the North, my Lord.” Sansa tells him honestly. “They will not stop in Westeros, or Essos or Sothoryos. As long as there are men alive, the Others will be hungry for more.”

“The Others are a fairy tale.”

“And yet Lord Stark, the Warden of the North, his sons Robb and Jon, his lords Umber, Karstark, Bolton have seen them. Lord Commander Stark and his Rangers have seen them.” Sansa looks at her uncle. “Do you believe them all to be false?”

“Lady Sansa.” Lord Edmure chooses his words very carefully. “I mean no disrespect, but the Others are creatures of songs and nothing more. Perhaps the Lords of -”

“You claim the 400 men the North lost in the North were, what? A dream?” Sansa asks, sharply. She is angry now, angry at the Southerners who did not help a lifetime ago, and will most probably not in this one either. “We do well in the North, my Lord, to survive without the help of the South.”

“My Lady-”

Sansa interrupts him, nudging her horse with her heels. “Thank you, ser. Our conversation has been very educational.” She rides away without a second glance.

  
  


*

  
  


_To Lord Eddard Stark, from Lord Hoster Tully:_

We received a letter from your son two days after you left for Lannisport. The seal was unbroken in Riverrun and it is enclosed within. May your travels be safe and quick. **Lord Tully.**

_To Eddard Stark, from Robb Stark:_

I hope you fare well in your wild journey through the lands of Westeros.

We have heard from Jon and the Free Folk. They are moving towards the Wall and will pass the gate at Castle Black in 2 weeks time. Lord Commander Benjen has prepared a few abandoned towns in the Gift which will now be habitable and of our count, half of the Wildlings will settle in the Gift. Once they are settled Jon plans on riding south with the remaining Free Folk. He will accompany each group to their new lands. It will probably be up to two moons turn before he returns to Winterfell if all goes well.

Mance Raydar too has written a letter. He thanks you and Lord Commander Stark again for allowing the Free Folk to pass the wall and swears we will not regret it. He and his 4 most trusted Lieutenants will be staying in the lands near Winterfell – according to him, and Jon, most of the Free Folk will be staying in groups similar to the clans they were north of the wall. So we will most probably not have to deal with infighting within the Free Folk Groups in the North.

Mother and I have appointed the last justices as well. They have all left for their respective posts throughout the North and have a monthly allowance and the new code of law with them. Should any troubles arise with the Lords I am certain we will deal with it.

In other news, I am absolutely thrilled to tell you that Maester Luwin believes that Mother's child will be born in the end of the 8th month of the year, which means you will all probably be back in time for the birth. **Robb**

Enclosed in this letter is one from Jon to Sansa if you could pass it along.

  
  


_To Sansa Stark, from Jon Snow:_

We will be passing the Wall in a fortnight and I feel as though many of the Free Folk are very reluctant still. I never thought I would be treated like this by the Wildlings. They have a really strange sense of deference towards me just because I am the son of Lord Stark, despite not being Father's bannermen. I have been called Lord Snow too often. I have also seen both Ygritte and Val – Val is as much of a Princess as she was before, though she does not storm off as often as last time. Ygritte has not spoken a word to me. I believe she calls me Lord Kneeler in private. I guess I could not have expected any less – we are both not the same people. Also I have met Tormund Giantsbane. He, luckily enough, does like me. Mayhaps if everyone turns out the same, he will be back by my side again. I can only hope. Do you think it strange when I say I wished for the past back, just for a moment a few days ago? I do, but still – a piece of me wishes for it. ~~Truthfully, Sansa, I do not know why I wrote this to you, but it is written now so you will read it too.~~ May we speak in truth soon, **Jon**

  
  


*

  
  


_To Robb Stark, from Eddard Stark:_

I am very happy to hear of the advancements. Please keep me updated should something larger change. I will be discussing everything with Lord Hand Jon Arryn at Highgarden and ask the south for assistance if possible. Please write to Lord Commander Stark at Castle Black and ask him if it is possible to prepare a statement to the King with a list of all the things he will need to prepare the watch for winter.

Please direct Lady Catelyn to write a letter to her Lord Father at Riverrun. Sansa spoke with Lord Edmure who was not convinced about the coming threat in the north. I had a similar feeling when I spoke with Lord Tully at Riverrun about the state of the Watch and the coming threat. He has agreed to go to the villages of the Riverlands and find recruits, but I do not know if he believed us about the true threat. While he has also promised to wait with making pronouncements until I have spoken to the Lord Hand, I believe it would be prudent for Lady Catelyn to send another letter to him. We need the support and trust of Lord Tully and the Riverlands. Give my wife and your brothers my love. **Eddard Stark**.

  
  


*

  
  


_To Jon Snow, from Sansa Stark_ :

I suppose I should be grateful we are taking a scenic route south to Highgarden, but the longer our journey takes the more I am getting a very bad feeling. It feels as though we are walking into the Lion's Den with a smile on our faces. I am praying to the Gods, Old and New, this is just how I feel as I know what might happen, however we have been cut off from news of the South for so long, I do not know what to expect.

I am glad your own journey south has gone well. I pray to the Gods you have reached your destinations safely, as I fear it will be difficult to convince the South of the necessity of our actions. I have had enlightening conversations with Lord Edmure, who does not understand our motivations. I do not only mean those of you and I, but those of the entire North. I believe that even Father, who tries his best, does not understand why we did not speak with him earlier. As far as I can tell, he thinks we could have spared the lives of those 400 men if we had told him earlier. I know it is not so for he would not have believed us then.

I miss you, Jon. I am surrounded by Arya, Bran, Lord Uncle Edmure, Lord Uncle Brynden, Father and all my ladies in all hours of the day, but I regret not being able to speak of our shared experiences on a daily basis. In theory Father knows who I am now, yet he cannot reconcile the 20 year old I tell him I am with the 12 year old he sees. Please don't think me selfish when I say I wish you were here by my side. I miss you. **Sansa**.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this and the next chapter were written together, but i split them because it would have been a monster. chapter 15 should be uploaded within the week!
> 
> we have also officially passed the 1000 kudos mark (a while ago but shhhhhh). I want to thank all of my readers and reviewers for your consistent love and support. I started this little fic of mine in October of 2016 and it turned into an outlet to vent my feeling about ASoIaF and GoT into. I never imagined, when i first posted, that I would ever cross the 1000 kudos line! So thank you! Thank you for sticking with this story through longer breaks between chapters and the occasional iffy plotting. Thank you! 
> 
> (and what does it say of me that i added the last letter to Jon because even I was annoyed with the glacial slow burn. why oh why muse, did i split up jon and sansa? thank you to all the jonsa shipper who came for the jonsa and stayed even though we haven't really gotten any jonsa yet!)


	15. Highgarden - 299, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Too Many Conversations And Surprises.

Their northern summer dresses are too hot and heavy by the time they reach Highgarden. Sweat gathers at the back of Sansa's back as the sun beats down mercilessly on their party. “Is it not late autumn?” Sansa asks, turning her head to look at the others behind her.

Uncle Edmure laughs and spurns his horse to catch up to Sansa's. “This is chilly for Highgarden.” He grins over at her. “These are early Spring temperatures in Riverland.”

Sansa faintly remembers the blistering heat of King's Landing on a hot summers day, a memory that had nearly been forgotten by years of the coldest winter chills. Still she had never thought Highgarden would still be this warm.

“It's so sticky.” Arya whines from behind them. “The North is never this hot.”

“Humid.” Father tells her. “It's humid.”

“I still do not know how you all survive in such cold up there.” Edmure says quietly, halfway under his breath. He digs his heels into his horse and races ahead, towards the Gate of Highgarden.

Sansa turns back halfway. “Does anyone have a wet cloth?” It isn't a big surprise when she is handed one a few moments later by dearest Jeyne whose answering smile is brilliant. Sansa runs the rag over her face and arms until she feels halfway to clean again. After rinsing it carefully with the rest of her drinking water, she holds it back towards her sister. “Arya?”

The castle stands high above them, high and slender towers arching high into the bright blue sky and made entirely of white marble that nearly blinds Sansa. A tent city is built outside the Castle Walls, loud and a rather ill smell disturbs the otherwise so lovely sight of Highgarden.

What could have been, Sansa thinks almost wistfully, if the Tyrell plot to marry her to Willas had not gone so terribly wrong? Would she have lived in this beautiful castle and had a dozen beautiful Tyrell children? Even if she had, she reminds herself, she would have probably died sooner or later when the Others came south. All in all her life would have been so different and not different at all.

“Lord Stark?”

Sansa is taken from her daydream as a young man at the side of the road calls out for her father, who overtakes Sansa and slows his own horse to a stop before the man. It is then Sansa notices Harwin standing close to the man – having ridden ahead to announce their arrival.

“Yes.” Father says. He swings himself off the horse. Sansa desaddles as well and helps Bran out of his, while Father approaches the man. “Lord Willas Tyrell, I presume.”

Lord Willas nods. “Yes, my Lord.” He bows. “I extend the greatest welcome to you, Lord Stark, and your household.” He says warmly.

Father bows. “I extend my greatest thanks to the Tyrell Family for hosting us at Highgarden.” He says, before turning and pointing out Sansa, Arya and Bran. “My daughters, Sansa and Arya, and my second son, Brandon Stark.”

Sansa approaches, sinking into a shallow curtsy. “Lord Willas, it is a pleasure.” She is completely aware of her dust-stained hem, the disarray of her hair and that she hasn't bathed in nearly 3 days, wishing she had been able to convince Father to stay at an Inn the past night. Still with a bright smile on her lips and the obvious travel they have endured, Sansa prays Willas Tyrell does not notice such things like his brother Loras or sister.

Lord Willas bows in response. “Lady Sansa, I presume.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then you must be Lady Arya.” Lord Willas tells Arya, who barely gives him a nod. Sansa suppresses a long suffering sigh, glaring at her sister. By the time Arya notices, Lord Willas has moved on to Bran already. “And Lord Bran.”

“Yes, my lord.” Bran says in a small voice, looking up shyly. Of course he does, Sansa thinks as she remembers that before his accident Willas Tyrell had been a very good knight indeed.

“We have prepared an apartment for you. Lyonel will show you.” Willas motions to the man standing behind him.

Father nods. “Well met, Lord Willas.”

Sansa winces at the dismissive tone. There was no need for Olenna to send the heir to Highgarden to greet them – surely Lord Willas will go back to tell Olenna all that was spoken. “We thank you for your kind welcome, Lord Willas.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa.” Lord Willas says, bowing deeply. He leaves just as swiftly.

“Oooooh, we thank you for your kind welcome.” Arya whispers, mocking and in a sing song. “Oooh Lord Willas.”

“Shut up.” Sansa snaps and Arya laughs the whole way through the castle until they reach their assigned rooms. They are not the best rooms, that honor clearly reserved for the royal family, but they are bright and clean and with a wonderful view over the mander. They will need to share, but it is rather better than sleeping in the tent city which had been Uncle Edmure's idea at first.

“The apartment is of satisfaction?” Lyonel asks, clasping his hands together and addressing Sansa.

She looks over at Father, who nods. “Of complete satisfaction, ser.” Sansa says with a warm smile. “We thank you.”

“Lord Tyrell would like to extend an invitation for your Lordship to sit atop the high dais with the most honored Tyrell family at the feast tonight.” Lyonel says.

Father looks up from the flowery decorations he had been inspecting. “We would be honored, ser. Please tell Lord Tyrell I look forward to speaking with him this evening.”

Lyonel nods, sharply. “Very well.” He turns around, sharply, and again sharply, closes the door behind him.

Father claps his hands together. “Let's get cleaned up. I have a meeting with Jon Arryn to get to.”

Sansa stops him before he can leave into the room subconsciously designated for him. “Can I speak to you before?”

Father nods and Sansa follows him into the nearest room and closes the door behind them. “So what is it Sansa?” He asks, sitting down behind the desk.

“I would like to join you when you speak with Lord Arryn.” Sansa sits down opposite of her father and looks at him. “I realize you would rather I not, but I would like to hear what Lord Arryn has to say for myself.”

“Sansa-” Father stops and he sighs heavily. “I do not think Jon will tell me what you say he will if you are there are well.”

“You do not know that.” Sansa argues.

“I do.”

“Please father. You know it is for the best.” Sansa leans forward. “I know too much not to be of any help to you.”

“I would tell you everything we discuss.”

Sansa sighs. “But you do not know what is important. You might forget to tell me something.” She looks up at her father, who watches her with barely concealed annoyance. “I do not mean on purpose, my Lord, but if not even I know what might become important – how will you?”

Father exhales, heavily, and he nods once. “Alright. But if Jon sends you out or away, you will go without complaint.”

Sansa smiles. “Thank you!” She stands and smooths out her dress. “Please come and get me when you leave.”

“Yes.” Father sighs, shaking his head. “I'll be paying my respects to my Lord King first.”

“Just tell me before we leave.” Sansa leans forward to press a kiss on her father's cheek.

“You are frightfully good at changing my mind, Sansa.” The words sound admonishing and Sansa knows he does not mean them in a positive manner, but still there is a small part of her that feels jubilant.

She turns back, halfway through the door, and smiles. “I am, my Lord.”

  


*

  


“Lord Stark and Sansa Stark for Lord Hand Jon Arryn.”

Jon Arryn looks nothing like Sansa pictured – a man well into his 80s, with long gray hair and a smile that reveals a distinct lack of teeth. He is much older and much weaker than the man whose death doomed the realm Sansa once pictured.

“Ned!” Lord Arryn exclaims, standing up from behind his desk. “It is so good to see you my boy.”

“Jon.” Father smiles. It is a more genuine smile than Sansa has seen in a long time. “It is good to see you.”

Lord Arryn smiles, before turning towards Sansa. “You must be Sansa.” He bows slightly. “I believe I saw you once when you were still a toddling babe. How much you have grown since then.”

“It is an honor, Lord Hand Arryn.” Sansa curtsies, low and with her head bent.

Lord Arryn nods, clearly dismissive of her presence and Sansa steels herself against his next words. “Ned, I have a lot to discuss with you.”

Father looks at Sansa for a split moment, before turning to Lord Arryn with a smile. “I do as well, Lord Jon.”

“I feel uncomfortable discussing such matters with your daughter, Lord Stark.” Sansa winces at the formality. Lord Arryn looks at her with a clear frown on his wrinkled face. “Mayhaps she would like to retreat to the apartment.”

Father's eyes dart over to Sansa. “Anything you wish to discuss with me, you can say in front of my daughter as well.” Father's hands twitch just slightly and Sansa watches him carefully. “Lady Catelyn and I have agreed that it is prudent for Lady Sansa to learn of the matters of the south before she is betrothed.”

Sansa winces at that. It isn't the best excuse, she thinks as she looks over to Jon Arryn hoping he does not see the same meaning in the words as Sansa did. Lord Arryn pauses, and a quick frown passes his face. Gods, he did see the same meaning, Sansa realizes. He believes Father to angle for a betrothal for Sansa to the crown.

“A fine idea,” Jon Arryn says, “however there are matter we need to discuss that are not for the ears of a young lady.”

Sansa refuses to roll her eyes, feeling rather like Arya in that moment – angry at her lot in life. “Of course Lord Arryn.” She curtsies, just shy of a mocking one, and she turns to Father. “Shall I prepare anything for tonight, my lord?”

“Thank you Sansa but no.” Father nods and Sansa leaves the room without another word.

Perhaps she had been wrong to join Father at all. If Sansa were Lord Arryn, she would probably have not allowed Sansa to listen in as well. It would have made it all easier, there was no doubt about it, however Sansa had learned enough tools from Petyr to learn what she needed to know without asking Lord Arryn about it.

Sansa shakes her head as she steps up to the nearest window and looks down at the lands sprawling beneath the castle. It is all so beautiful, the castle overlooking golden fields of wheat as far as the eyes could see and the blue-green mander flowing to the side of it all. The reach is so very different from the north, Sansa thinks as she looks out.

“Lady Sansa?”

She spins around, not having heard the footsteps behind her, and stares into the face of Willas Tyrell. “My lord.” She dips into a curtsy.

“Have you lost your way, my lady?” Lord Willas asks, coming to a stop a respectful distance away from her.

Sansa stares for a moment, before catching herself. “No, my lord.” She waves her hand at the closed door. “I accompanied my father to Lord Hand Arryn's apartment.”

“To see your aunt, the Lady Lysa Arryn?” Lord Willas asks.

Sansa winces. No. She had not even thought of that, of her mother's sister who had almost pushed her from the moon door so long ago. “Yes, my lord.” If Sansa could, she would like to never see her aunt again. “Unfortunately my aunt was not available.”

Lord Willas smiles, gently. “I would think so as she is not here at Highgarden.”

Oh. “Yes.” That was news. “Lord Arryn mentioned it.” Sansa smiles over her confusion. “It is such a pity. I had hoped I could see my aunt during this trip, as we so rarely go south to see our mother's family.”

Sansa cannot tell if Lord Willas believes her, but his smile grows. “Would you like to accompany me to the Rose Garden?” He gestures to his leg. “Walking takes some of the pressure off my leg, and I do enjoy the company.”

Sansa glances over at Donnis, her guard, who gives her a small nod. “It would be a pleasure, Lord Willas.” She says with a smile. “I have heard many great thing of the Tyrell Rose Garden.”

“Have tales reached so far north?” Lord Willas asks. He smiles, a small proud smile. “It is truly as magnificent as people say.”

Sansa smiles. “Then I look forward to seeing it.” They walk together, a half step apart from each other, and the two guards five steps behind.

“How was the journey south, my lady?” Lord Willas asks. “You must have been on the road for a very long time indeed.”

“Not too long.” Sansa lies. “Our travels were very lovely.” She eyes the Lord beside her. “The south is so very different from the north. Have you ever been, my lord?”

“The North?” Lord Willas looks down at her, startled. “No, my lady. I have not been.”

Sansa looks away. “A shame.” She says. “The North is so beautiful.”

Lord Willas does not answer, but she can tell that he does not believe her. “Mayhaps I will one day.” He says then. “And then you can show me the North's prettiest sights, my lady.” He smiles. “Though surely none would be as lovely as you.”

Oh, Sansa thinks surprised. Lord Willas is _flirting_ with her. She did not think … Olenna would never allow him to do so without a plan in mind. “I would be honored, Lord Tyrell.” She says, concealing her own surprise. It would make little sense for the Tyrell's to wish for a betrothal with the Starks – they have no power in the south, nor is Sansa any longer the heir to the North as she had been her past life.

“Oh please call me Willas.” He says. “My father is still Lord Tyrell.”

“If it pleases you, my Lord.” Sansa says, hiding a tiny smile behind her hair.

Willas speaks just as they step outside into the warm sun. “It would, my lady.”

Sansa pauses, exhaling as the sun warms her face. She cannot spend too long in the sun, her pale skin burning quickly, but she does like the warmth of it. “Is it always so warm in late autumn?” She asks.

“These are cold days for the Reach.” Lord Willas says, and when Sansa looks over at him there is a smile on his face. “I suppose it would be warm for someone coming from the North.”

“This would be a warm summer's day.” Sansa tells him. “A very warm day.”

Lord Willas looks back at her, and a smile spreads over his face. “I am not certain I would do well in such a cold.”

“There are a great many things that do not.” Sansa says absentmindedly. Once her own words register, she looks back at him. “But a great many other that do.”

Lord Willas eyes her for a moment. “Shall we continue on?”

Sansa flushes, noticing she still stands in the doorway. “Yes, my lord.” They fall back into step and Sansa glances back at the two guards who carefully appear not to be listening. Donnis notices her looking and he gives her a small smile, with a nod.

“So tell me, my lady, what would you consider the North's prettiest sights?” Lord Willas asks.

Sansa pretends to think, as she looks around the lovely garden. “There are a great many. Mayhaps none as well known as your Rose Garden, but the Godswood at Winterfell is stunning too. There are hot springs all around Winterfell, so the Godswood is always warm to the touch. Do you have a Godswood at Highgarden?”

“No, my Lady.” Lord Willas shakes her head.

Sansa shakes her head. “A shame.” The Gods cannot see so far south as Highgarden, and the weaker their influence is the stronger the Others will be.

“There are few followers of the Old Gods this far south, my lady.” Lord Willas says. He looks almost amused.

Sansa nods. “A heart tree would surely look very beautiful among all the roses.” She says, looking around her. They have finally arrived at the famed Rose Garden, and Sansa must admit it is as beautiful as she had been told. “The leaves of the tree are a deep red, redder even than this rose here.” She points it out.

Lord Willas makes a noise of halfhearted agreement. “I am sure the Godswood is very beautiful.”

Sansa looks back at Donnis, sharply, before approaching a patch of blue roses. “This is a winter rose, is it not?”

“It is.” Lord Willas answers. “They usually do not grow in these temperatures, but our horticulturist is a magician with roses.”

“It is beautiful.” Sansa runs a light finger over the top of the flower.

Lord Willas makes a sound of agreement and Sansa looks back. He is watching her and Sansa smiles. “I suppose you do not have many flower in the north.”

He truly does not have the best image of the north, Sansa thinks amused. “Oh we do.” Sansa says dismissively. “But those we do grow have a use. Marigolds, violas, hibiscus.” She trails off. “It is rare to see a flower purely for being pretty.” Sansa swears she can hear Donnis chuckle behind them, but when she looks back at the two guards there is no sight of a smile on his face.

Lord Willas however looks sour, and Sansa hurries to sends her most innocent, and naive smile at him. He smiles back after a moment.

“I do like looking at flowers.” Sansa says, adding the dreamiest quality to her voice. “Would it be alright for me to pick one of the winter roses?” She runs a finger over the soft petals. “It would be so lovely to have a reminder to take up North.”

Lord Willas immediately cuts a rose, by the stem and he presents it to her with an exaggerated bow. “My lady.”

“I thank you, ser.” Sansa brings the rose up to her nose and smells. The sweet scent is nearly overpowering. “I will cherish it.”

Lord Willas smiles. “I am afraid I need to go back into the castle now.” A hand massages the broken leg rhythmically. “Shall I show you back to your apartment, my lady?”

Sansa shakes her head. “Thank you, Lord Willas. I think I will enjoy the sun for a moment longer.”

“Of course, my lady.” Lord Willas bows. “Thank you for accompanying me, my lady.”

Sansa watches him leave, wondering what of their conversation will be relayed to Olenna Tyrell. She isn't foolish enough to think it will not, and she hopes she played the role of an innocent little girl well enough to fool Lord Willas.

“Do you want to go back, Lady Sansa?” Dorris asks. He has come closer and there is a small smile on his face. “There is a feast soon.”

“Yes please, Dorris.” She says.

“Is it so clever to anger the Lord Tyrell, mi'lady?” Dorris asks her on the way.

Sansa looks over at him and at the smile on his face. “I did not anger the Lord.” Sansa says faux-innocently, her eyes wide as she looks back at Dorris. “Do you think I did, good ser?”

“Lord Rose knows nothing of the North.”

Sansa smiles. “I am sure that is not true.”

Dorris smiles too. He is one of the few members of the household guard that had survived the Bolton's and the Greyjoy's back in her last life. He had been her personal guard after taking back Winterfell, and her father had allowed her to take him as her personal guard now as well. He was a good person, kind and most importantly he was loyal to House Stark.

“Mi'lady.” Dorris steps aside to let her into the apartments and Sansa smiles at him as she steps into the apartment and is immediately stunned by the loud conversation, if not argument, between her companions and Arya. They are all dressed in their finest gowns and Arya has a scowl on her face, holding out a comb as if to ward something away.

“Sansa!” Jeyne is the one to notice her first and the others fall quiet immediately. Even Arya looks over at her and Sansa eyes the scene with a raised eyebrow. “We were getting ready for the feast.” Jeyne explains.

“That is good.” Sansa smiles at them all. “Very good. When are we to leave?”

“A maid came by a while ago. She will be seeking us when it is time.” Septa Mordane answers.

Jeyne approaches. “Come Sansa. I'll help you get dressed.”

They go into the adjacent room and Jeyne hands Sansa a wet cloth that smells of lavender. “Where were you?” Jeyne asks, curious. “I thought we might prepare for the feast together.”

“I joined Lord Stark in his meeting with Lord Arryn and then walked to the Rose Garden with Lord Willas Tyrell.” Sansa tells her truthfully.

Jeyne brightens. “Lord Willas is so handsome, is he not?” She asks with a dreamy smile. “It is a shame he will not be participating in the Tourney.”

“It is.” Sansa tells Jeyne with a soft smile, though truthfully Lord Willas' handsome face had barely registered to her. She had been too much aware of his clever mind.

Jeyne smiles. “Was it he who asked you to a walk?” When Sansa nods, Jeyne beams. “Do you think he will wish to marry you?”

“I doubt I will marry him, Jeyne.” Sansa says honestly. “It would make little sense to betroth us, neither House Stark nor House Tyrell would profit much from it.”

“It would not?” Jeyne asks, confused. “But a marriage-”

“There is no power in a marriage to the North.” Sansa tells her quietly, aware of the possible ears in the walls.

Jeyne nods, still seeming confused. “A shame. Would you like to marry the Lord Willas?”

“I believe I would like to stay in the north.” Sansa tells Jeyne. “There are plenty handsome men in the North, don't you think.” Jeyne looks at her and nods. A light blush is covering Jeyne's cheeks and Sansa resists the urge to tease her about it.

Finally, Sansa undresses and slips the gown over her head. The underdress is a fine spun blue wool, over which she secures the gray gown. Jeyne laces the front tightly and then hands her the headpiece Sansa carefully secures on her head with numerous pins. The headpiece is the same blue as her underdress, dyed in the exact same shade of blue as Sansa's own eyes. When Sansa looks in the mirror, the effect is as intended. She looks as Northern as she could, while still shedding as many layers as she could. Still something was missing, she thinks as she looks at her reflection. Finally deciding, she runs her hands through her hair and starts braiding them into a five-stranded braid – complex by northern standards, but so very simplistic for the south.

“You look beautiful, Sansa.” Jeyne says sweetly. She reaches up to tug something into place. “Are you sure you don't want me to do something more to your hair?”

“I am sure, Jeyne.”

Together they step back into the other room and Sansa notices with happiness that her companions are all dressed in the same, fine gray dress, the only difference of them all the sigil of their house embroidered above their heart. Arya is dressed in a gown very similar to Sansa's own, though her underdress is a dark, bloody red.

“You look beautiful, Lady Sansa.” Wylla says gently.

Sansa smiles. “You do as well, Wylla.” She looks at each of her ladies. “All of you.”

It does not take long for the maid to arrive at the apartment, a hesitant knock at the door. The walk towards the feast hall does not take a long time, and they pass numerous Tyrell vassals on their way. Sansa keeps a small smile on her face and nudges Arya to keep hers up as well.

They are not seated at the high dais, that honor only reserved for the royal family, Lord and Lady Tyrell and Father – though none are seated yet. Instead Sansa, Arya and her ladies are seated in the front of the hall, at the same table as Margaery Tyrell and her ladies – or so the maid assures her. It is still a place of honor, by the side of the hosting lords only daughter and Sansa wonders again why exactly the Tyrells are making such an effort to befriend the Starks – or at least her.

They have barely been seated when the herald announces the arrival of the Tyrell family and the royal family. Sansa watches with bated breath as King Robert strides in the hall, with Lady Alerie Tyrell at his side. He is just as fat and red in the face as she remembers, and Sansa catches a whiff of sweat when they pass her table.

“That is the King?” Arya whispers behind her. “He does not look much like the King.”

Sansa turns back towards her. “Hush Arya. Don't speak such words where people can hear.” Arya only rolls her eyes, but Sansa is distracted when Cersei and Joffrey pass her table instead. It takes her breath away to see the two people who had ruined so much of her life again.

Queen Cersei is dressed in a golden dress so extravagant it must have cost a fortune, and the smile she gives Lord Mace Tyrell looks more like a grimace than anything else. Sansa wonders what it is Cersei thinks then, but surely it is nothing kind. They pass their table and Cersei looks down at her for a brief second, before her eyes pass over Sansa completely. You will rue disregarding me one day, Sansa thinks as Cersei passes, though she keeps a pleasant smile on her face. Sansa wants to do nothing more than to jump up now and call out Cersei's incest for all to hear, but the calm voice in the back of her mind reminds her of all the reasons it would be foolish indeed.

Sansa tears her eyes away from Cersei and looks at Joffrey, the boy she will probably marry despite all her best efforts not to. He is accompanying Lady Margaery and they look lovely together. Joffrey smiles at Margaery, who smiles back with a starry look in her eyes. Sansa wonders how much of it is acted, after all Margaery had been so good at convincing Joff she loved him, even moments before Olenna had killed him. Joff's eyes drop as they pass, catching her eyes and he smiles at her, so incredibly pleased with himself. Sansa shudders under his smile and bile rises in her throat as she watches them pass.

“Sansa?” Thyra lays a cold, pale hand on Sansa's. “You are pale.”

Sansa looks into Thyra's warm brown eyes that look at her with such concern and she brings a smile to her face. “I am a little hungry that is all.”

“If you are true.” Thyra says, a nice little oddity in her speech Sansa has learned is so charming. “So them are the King and Queen.”

“They are.” Sansa looks up at the dais where the royal family and the Tyrells are taking their seats. Father still hasn't arrived. “What do you say?”

“I have seen men wearing their biggest winter furs with less width than the king.” Thyra says quietly. Septa Mordane makes a sound of horrified exasperation, so it might not have been quietly enough. “But they are all handsome enough.”

“The Prince smiled at you, Sansa.” Jeyne says. The joy in her voice is obvious. “He is so handsome, is he not?”

Sansa knows herself and she knows what is expected of her, but she cannot bring herself to lie then and there. “He is still so very young.”

Thyra and Jenny – both years older than Sansa – make noises of amusement and Jenny actually laughs loudly. “You are as well.” Jenny shakes her head at her. “You pretend not to be, little lady, but you are.”

“Lady Umber!” Septa Mordane exclaims, scandalized. “Manners.”

Sansa doesn't watch Jenny respond, surely something rather crass and disrespectful of the dear Septa's position, as Margaery Tyrell and her ladies approach.

Margaery's large green gown moves enticingly with every step Margaery takes and she looks just as lovely as Sansa remembers her to be, though she is younger now than Sansa ever knew her. “Lady Sansa!” Margaery approaches her and Sansa stands, only to curtsy. “Oh, I wish we could have spoken before now, my Lady. It is so dreadfully loud in here.”

“Lady Margaery.” Sansa rises from her curtsy to look Margaery in the eyes. “It is wonderful to meet you, my lady.”

“Oh it is.” Margaery grabs Sansa's hands and beams. “Please, come sit beside me.”

“I would be honored, my lady.” She allows Margaery to lead her to the head of the table, where two places are immediately cleared for the both of them.

Margaery turns to smile at her. “It is so wonderful to speak to a lady my age.” She says quietly, leaning in close. “I am so very fond of my cousins, but a new conversationalist does wonder for my mind.”

Sansa is under no illusion Margaery would not say the same to everyone else, but still there is a part of Sansa that feels truly flattered. Olenna taught Margaery very well, Sansa thinks with amusement. “It is kind of you to say so.” Sansa looks down at her plate, allowing a small smile to pass her face. “Are you excited for the Tourney, my lady?”

Margaery seems to light up, sitting up straighter. “Oh I am, so very much!” She points over to the next table where the three Tyrell sons are seated. “My brothers Loras and Garlan will be joining the list as well. Willas unfortunately cannot, not with his leg.”

Sansa looks over at them. “I am sure they will do very well, my lady.” She says, as is expected of her. “I have heard tales of Lord Loras's bravery and skills, even in the North.”

Margaery smiles, a true and fond one. “Loras is very brave and skilled, it is true.” Her eyes turn back to Sansa. “Are there men from the North who will join the Tourney?”

“None of House Stark.” Sansa answers truly. “My elder brothers are at Winterfell still, and Bran is too young.”

“Such a shame!” Margaery exclaims. Her smile is as sweet as the scent of the rose Lord Willas had gifted her before. “Oh!” She sits up straighter and clasps her hands together. “Lady Sansa, you must join me for the Tourney tomorrow.”

Sansa allows a delighted smile to spread over her face. “I would like that very much, my lady.” She says, quietly.

“Oh fantastic!” Margaery looks so thoroughly happy, Sansa would have been convinced if she did not know better.

They both fall silent as Lord Tyrell rises from his seat at the dais. He raises his chalice, golden and decorated with enough gems Sansa wonders how he can even raise it at all. The hall falls silent as Lord Tyrell waits and he smiles genially.

“Lord King Robert, Queen Cersei, Princes and Princesses, Lord and Ladies, Sers and Ladies,” He starts, “I welcome you to Highgarden!”

There is a roar of cheers and Lord Tyrell waits, his chalice still raised, until the hall falls silent again. Sansa looks from him to King Robert, whose own chalice – just as generously decorated as that of Lord Tyrell – is refilled by a servant as Sansa watches. Queen Cersei eyes him, taking a long drink from her own cup and Sansa exhales heavily. Her eyes move along the high table, to Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella, who both sit by Queen Cersei's side with barely concealed boredom, and then Prince Joffrey who sits alone at the other end of the table from his siblings. His scowl is severe enough to make Sansa wish she could warn someone.

“Knights are protectors of the realm and of the honor. We host these celebrations-”

Sansa's eyes catch on her father slipping into the Hall, lead to his place by a servant and followed in by Lord Arryn. Father looks troubled, not even a small smile on his face as he takes a seat by the high table. His eyes travel across the hall and when his meet Sansa's, he looks away quickly.

Lord Arryn told him something troubling, Sansa realizes, and she wants to do nothing more than force Father to tell her everything then and there. She _knew_ , she just knew she had to be in the room when Lord Arryn updated Father on the happenings of the Realm.

Sansa's mind races as she thinks of all the possibilities of what Lord Arryn could have told Father to make him look so unhappy. Aunt Lysa's betrayal with Petyr. The Lannister's Incest. Of Dany and her dragons. Of any number of possibilities Sansa cannot even dream of now, for everything in their world had changed.

“And so, all I wish of you is a joyous tourney.” Lord Tyrell raises his chalice and the hall bursts into cheers. Sansa joins in, the moment her mind tears itself away from the dreadful possibilities. Margaery, next to Sansa, is clapping brightly, with small tears in her eyes.

“I have been so excited for this tourney since father announced it a year ago!” Margaery leans over to tell Sansa. “I have visited many tourneys with mother and father, but never one here at Highgarden! It is such a wonderful occasion.”

Sansa and Margaery talk, all while food is served and Sansa remembers that despite all that happened in her last life, she does like Margaery. In some lifetime they might have been good friends.

When the 19th course has been cleared off the tables, a maid approaches them. “Lady Sansa. Your father wishes for your presence.”

Sansa looks up at the high table in surprise. Father waves her up, and Sansa goes – carefully aware of her every step. She approaches the High Table, and sinks into a low curtsy.

“My eldest daughter, Sansa.” Father's calm, deep voice is reassuring to Sansa. He smiles when he notices her looking at him.

“King Robert, Lord Tyrell,” Sansa says softly, respectfully. “Queen Cersei, Lady Tyrell.”

“There's not a drop of Stark blood in her!” King Robert booms, with a laugh. “She looks exactly like Cat!”

“She does.” Father says gently, but King Robert's attention is gone already. Cersei, however, is still eyeing Sansa, who feels rather like the mouse before the lion.

“Did you make your dress yourself?” Cersei asks, a barely-concealed sneer on her lips. “It is so pretty.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I only embroidered the gown myself. Our tailor at Winterfell made the dress before I left.”

“It is beautiful, my lady.” Lady Tyrell says, her voice just as smooth and sweet as that of her daughter. “You are a very beautiful young lady.”

Sansa curtsies again. “I- thank you, Lady Tyrell.”

“How old are you, child?”

Sansa darts in surprise at the voice of the Queen of Thorns. She looks over at the old woman and she wonders what this interrogation is about. “12, my lady.”

“Oh so young.” Lady Olenna says with a smile to her tone. “When I was your age, the fourth Blackfyre Rebellion had just ended and I was still betrothed to a Prince of the Realm.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“How much has changed since then.” Lady Olenna says, sounding almost wistfully. “But none in the realm miss the Targaryens.”

  


*

  


“Oh,” Jenny rushes forward to pick Sansa up under the arms as she stumbles, and Sansa giggles, “careful my lady.”

Sansa feels the strong, firm muscles of Jenny's arm and begs the floor to stop turning under her. She might be a little drunk – _maybe_ – having drunken much wine with Margaery after returning from her little introduction to Queen Cersei at the high table. Margaery had been quite insistent, and Sansa too unwilling to say no.

Dorris holds the door to the apartment open for Sansa and Jenny, before walking the room off, checking for intruders. Sansa watches him work, sprawled on the beautiful sofa that accompanied the room. She traces a finger along the intricate woodcarving of the seat, along the golden paint and red silk cushion.

“What would happen ifs, uhm,” Sansa thinks of the word, that word, “if you'd find someone in here now? Would he not've killed us by now? Had the elementsof surprise, didn'he?”

Dorris turns to her with a tiny smirk, and Sansa makes a note to remember to tell him tomorrow to not make fun of her. “No worries, little lady. Lew was stationed before the apartment the whole night. No one could be in here.”

“Then why'd'ya walk it off.”

“Nothing for you to worry about, little lady.” Dorris still smirks. “Miss Umber will bring you to bed, my lady.”

“Yes, ser.” Sansa watches him walk out of the room. Her head falls as she turns to look at Jenna, who towers over her with a smirk. “You shouldened, uh, I mean,” she pronounces it carefully, “shouldn't laugh at me.”

“How about we get you to bed?” Jenny says in response. She is still smirking.

“I don't like you laughing at me.”

“That is fine, mi'lady.” Jenny pulls Sansa off the sofa and catches her when Sansa stumbles. “Careful there, my lady.”

“You are stronger than my brother.” Sansa pokes at Jenny's muscles and smiles up at her. “I'll tell Rrrrobb so.”

“I'd rather you not.” Sansa watches the room dance and then they are in the room with the bed. Bedroom. “Are you magic? We just flew!” She spins towards Jenny. “We walked, mi'lady. Arms up.” Sansa giggles as her arms almost hit the post of the bed. “Shush, mi'lady. The others are sleeping.” Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhhh. “Not so loud, mi'lady. Arms down!” Sansa falls and falls and falls, and lands in the softest clouds she has ever felt. “I cannot wait for your head ache tomorrow.” the disembodied voice whispers and Sansa giggles. A voice! In the darkness! Sansa sighs out into the night and closes her eyes, waiting for sleep to take her. All around her, things are moving and the bed moves beneath her and Sansa is almost, this close, to sleep, when the door is wrenched open and a light pours into the room.

“Father?” Sansa asks, thankfully not slurring.

“Sansa. Can I speak with you for a moment?” Father asks. He looks troubled and Sansa immediately untangles herself from the furs and slips out the room with him.

“What is it?”

Father's face contracts into a grimace and Sansa takes a seat on the sofa, looking up to him in worry. “You told me all about the Queen from Essos, did you not?” His eyes dart towards the walls of the room. “Every last detail?”

“I did.”

“Alright.” Father sighs, taking a seat beside Sansa. “Jon Arryn has informed me, that Daenerys Targaryen is mother to a 6-moons old babe.”

Sansa swallows.

  


_The children playing in the yard are not aware in the least of Sansa and Daenerys standing in the gallery looking down at them. Sansa looks over at the Queen and her soft face, and she makes the decision to bridge their divide. “I have always wished for children.” Sansa says. “It only seems unjust to bring a child into this world.”_

_Daenerys looks over and smiles, sadly. “I was pregnant once. I lost my son the night I lost my husband.”_

“ _My condolences.” Sansa says, words ringing of nothing but honesty. She may not like the Dragon Queen much, but no one should suffer such pains._

“ _It no longer pains me.” Daenerys looks over at Sansa. “My dragons were born the same night. I was destined to be mother of three, and mother of none.” Daenerys says softly, looking back down at the the children. “And my children will save all the children of the realm.”_

  


“Pardon me?”

“Rhaego Targaryen was born to Daenerys Targaryen and Khal Drogo.” Father repeats. “Robert is on a warpath. He wants to invade Essos to kill them both.”

“Does Lord Arryn know if-” Sansa pauses, unable to think of the horrible thought. “Did the Dragons hatch?”

“I don't know.” Father looks at her, and puts a hand on Sansa's shoulder. “I know this changes many things, darling, but you mustn't worry too much.”

Sansa's head snaps over to stare at him. Gods, he is so wrong. She needs to worry more now, about the realm and all its people. She cannot even fathom how they will even have a chance without the dragons. “Father. We are lost without the dragons.”

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn Sansa had a long day ;)
> 
> [Edit: 20.03.2018: Corrected a name in the last part because i am a dumbass who forgot my own characters name like a dumbass. sorry to anyone who might have noticed and was confused!]


	16. Highgarden - 299, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Talks and Changes.

 

 

 

 _The weather reflects the somber mood of the room, Sansa thinks, as she looks outside to the icy rain pounding the windows. Though the temperatures must be much warmer than those in the North, Sansa feels the cold settling into her bones much deeper. It is too humid, she thinks. No wonder_ _Dragonstone has been abandoned so many times in 300 years._ _Dragonstone is a ghastly dreary place to be._

“ _Sansa.” Jon touches her shoulder, gently, but she still startles. “Are you ready for this, my lady?” He speaks more formal than usual, fitting though for this setting._

_When Sansa turns to him, there is a soft look on his face, sweeter than she remembers him. “I am.” She pauses. “Jon-”_

_The sharp knock at the door startles them both, but the warning – presumably by one of Sansa's ladies, Lyra if Sansa would have to guess – is enough for Sansa to compose herself and to paint the expression of a queen onto the face of a frightened little girl. She is grateful then, for Jon's steady presence by her side, and he rests a hand on the small of her back, offering steady assistance._

“ _My good dear wife.” Tyrion Lannister is the first to enter the room, his presence much larger than his actual self._

_Sansa suppresses the urge to flinch at the honorific. She has not been Tyrion Lannister's wife in a long time, and she does not ever wish to be again. “I am no longer your wife, Lord Lannister. And I have not been for many years.”_

_Tyrion very visibly flinches at her cool tone. It surprises Sansa, who had figured him to be a better politician than that. “You hurt me, lady wife.”_

_Sansa says nothing to that, turning her attention to the next person who has entered the room. The Targaryen Queen is just as beautiful as the whispers said she would be. What strikes Sansa the most, as she stares at the silver-haired Queen, is how young she is, barely two years older than Sansa herself. Somehow Sansa had mistakenly pictured Daenerys Targaryen to be Cersei's age rather than her own. “Lady Stark I presume.”_

“ _Yes, my lady.” Sansa says. If she is not addressed with her own proper title, she will not use the Dragon Queen's title as well._

“ _Queen.” Daenerys Targaryen corrects her immediately, a sharp smile on her lips. “Not Lady.”_

“ _As am I. Sansa Stark, Queen of the North and Regent of the Riverlands until my brother Rickon is of age, or my uncles are recovered.” Sansa smiles sweetly. “Two might play this game.”_

_Daenerys' darling face is still for a moment, before she shrieks, and a small beast comes flying towards them. It is a babe, Sansa realizes, a beautiful one with shocking lilac eyes and beautiful wings. Sansa smiles despite herself and she reaches out for the babe, but it transforms – growing scales and fangs into a truly monstrous visage. “DDDDDRRRRRRAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYSSSSSSS” Daenerys shrieks, a high tone that has Sansa scrambling for cover behind a shield. Sansa holds the shield out even as unbearable heat passes through it onto her hands and Sansa shrieks in pain._

_She isn’t the only one._

_Sansa looks around herself, watching the people around her melt into the floor. “HELP ME!” One of them screams in pain, and Sansa looks closer. “WHY WILL YOU NEVER HELP ME SANSA! SANSA! PLEASE!” It is Arya, screaming as she burns._

“ _SANSA!”_

“ _SISTER!”_

“ _SANSA!”_

_Sansa cries out in pain, weeping, as she watches them all, Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon, Arya, Bran, Old Nan, Jeyne, Jenny, Alys, Thyra burn under the Dragons wrath. “NO!” She screams. “Please! DANY PLEASE!” She tastes the salt on her lips and sees the tips of her hair, floating in the air, start to burn. “PLEASE DANY!”_

_The flame stops, abruptly and Sansa stands, almost slipping in the mud of blood, as she walks towards the babe with the dragon head, still weeping in anger._

_A cloaked figure stands next to the babe-dragon, running a soft hand over the scales. “You did so well.” The figure mutters and Sansa reaches out to brush the hood out of its face._

“ _Jon!” She gasps. “Jon! Get away from her!”_

_Jon turns to her and she cries out in shock. It is Jon, she would know him anywhere, but not the Jon she knows. Purple eyes stare through her, and Cersei's cruel smile plays on his lips. “Away from her?” His hand still caresses the girl-dragon's face. “Why would I do that?”_

“ _She killed them!” Sansa spins around, pointing at her family, melted in the ground, but when she spins there is nothing there, nothing but plains of untouched grass._

“ _Who killed who?” Jon asks. “Why are you always so cruel to Dany, Sansa?”_

“ _What?” Sansa asks. “I am not cruel to Dany!”_

_Jon's hand reaches out to Sansa's cheek and he smiles sweetly. “Oh Sansa. You didn't think I would choose you, did you?”_

_Babe-dragon snarls and Sansa screams as the flame hits her. It doesn't hurt, not yet, but-_

“ _What is it Alayne?” Jon asks, his voice sweet._

“ _What?” Sansa gasps. “Jon. It's me! Sansa!”_

“ _I can only see one real girl here, Alayne. And that is you!” Jon's face shifts, away from the cruel features of Cersei and into the Jon she knows, with gray eyes and dark hair and a sweet smile. “Isn't that right, Alayne? You are her, are you not?”_

“ _I-I-” Sansa's breath hitches, pulling herself away from Jon, but he holds her close with a hard grip on her arm._

“ _Are you not Alayne, sweetling?” Jon asks._

“ _Please!” Sansa begs, struggling as Jon tugs her closer to him. She squirms and kicks as Jon hugs her tight, wrapping his arms around her so that she cannot breathe, cannot move and she cannot see anything but the dark leather of his doublet and the errand black curl. He squeezes and Sansa cannot breath, she slaps at his side, trying to get free but nothing is working and, oh gods, why, why, oh gods is Jon doing this? She screams, holding on to Jon as she falls and falls and falls._

 

 

Sansa wakes with a scream in her throat, the sensation of falling still trapped in her limbs. The feeling is too eerily similar to the one when she had returned, and Sansa refuses to open in her eyes in fear of what she might see.

“Sansa! Are you up yet?”

At the sound of Arya's shout, Sansa is abruptly made aware of the stomping pain in her head and she groans as she remembers the events of last night. Too much wine and the horrible revelation of Daenerys' child had given her a terrible nightmare. She barely remembers what she had dreamed about, but the dread still sticks in her heart.

“I am up.” Sansa groans, moving to the edge of the bed with her eyes still shut. She opens them slowly and blinks against the blinding light. A sharp pain shoots through her temples, but she groans and slowly makes her way out of the bedroom.

Jenny is the first to accost her, a sympathetic look on her face. “How are you feeling?” She asks in a volume Sansa feels is better reserved for the Tourney. “You were fairly drunk yesterday.”

“I would be fine,” Sansa whispers, “if you would not shout so loudly.”

Sansa is very aware of the chuckles in the room, but she moves through them with all the dignity she can muster, towards the saving grace of a hot tea she sees prepared on the table.

“Gods Sansa, how much did you-” Arya all but shouts.

Sansa raises a single finger in the direction she thinks her sister to be, and Arya even follows her plead, quieting as Sansa drains the tea.

“Now,” Sansa says, feeling slightly more alive, “what did you want to ask?”

“How much did you drink?” Arya teases. “I only saw you and,” she affects a whiny tone “Lady Margaery, I am so beautiful, Tyrell drinking enough for 3 men.”

“And so we did.” Sansa says, primly.

“Leave her be.” Jenny chuckles, but she falls silent abruptly as Septa Mordane and Father enter the room together.

Sansa winces as she sees the Septa's disapproving stare. “Truly, Lady Sansa!” Septa Mordane starts. “I have never witnessed such unbelievable unladylike behavior as yesterday.”

Father's chuckles surprise everyone, even Sansa. “Oh the girl has a right to some amusement, Septa. I am sure every lady has gotten drunk before. As I recall, Lady Margaery was rather in her cups as well.”

The Septa gasps indigently. “Well, I have never!”

Sansa smiles, grabbing a piece of fruit from the table, and eats it slowly. The room is joyous, Sansa's ladies and Arya chatting and eating. Bran is playing at sword fighting in the corner, with a piece of driftwood – Sansa does not even want to know who got him that. Father presses a kiss onto the crown of Sansa's head and squeezes her tight.

The gesture lets the events of last night come rushing back and she sets the apple down, all her appetite gone.

 

*

 

The day is perfectly pleasant, warm and breezy, and Sansa angles her face towards the sun as she and Father walk through the Rose Gardens.

“So Daenerys had no children in your … lifetime.” Father chokes on the last word to Sansa's quiet amusement. His voice is quiet, but Sansa still looks around to see if anyone is near. It would not do well for anyone to overhear their conversation.

Sansa shakes her head. “She called her dragons her children actually.”

Father's jaw clenches at that, a wry smile appearing on his face. “Dragons … Gods, I never thought I would see it in my lifetime.”

“You might not yet.” Sansa points out.

“Would that truly doom us all?” Father asks. “I cannot imagine...”

Sansa sighs. “One dragon breath killed more Others than an hour long battle between men and the wights.” She shakes her head. “We are better prepared this time, but that may all be for naught still.”

Father pauses. “I spoke with Jon about the Others.”

“He did not believe you.” Sansa guesses.

“He did not.” Father agrees. “But he also did not believe I would ever lie. Lord Arryn promised he will speak to the King and see if he can find recruits for the Nights Watch.” Father shakes his head. “I fear Benjen will not be happy about whomever he will find, but in this case beggars can not be choosers.”

Sansa looks around the beautiful Rose Garden they are wandering in. She could understand why no one wanted to leave something so beautiful to go live at the Wall for the rest of their lives. “Garlan Tyrell joined the Watch in my other life. The Reach had been decimated already by the time Daenerys landed with her dragons and Garlan was among the first wave of volunteers.”

“The Reach was decimated?” Father asks, curiously.

“So I heard.” She thinks back to hearing the rumors when she had still been in the Eyrie. “The Tyrells had gone to both sides, speaking to Aegon at Storm's End, while Margaery was still Queen in King's Landing. Nearly all of their forces were at either camp and then the Ironmen sailed up the mander and destroyed Highgarden, Cider Hall and Ashford.”

Father makes a quiet sound of distress.

“It wasn't Theon.” Sansa says. Theon had been in the North then, unrecognizable to anyone who knew him. She had not told Father, or any of them, what Theon had done, only telling Robb to keep a close eye on the Greyjoy. “He wasn't … It was his uncle. I cannot recall which of them.”

Father looks troubled, a deeply furrowed brow carving lines into his too-young face. Sansa wonders idly if Father had had the same creases before Robert's Rebellion, if he had been so serious as a youth, or if that had come with the worry of the Lordship. Sansa herself had acquired a great many worry lines over her short tenure as Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell.

“The Reach was burned before Daenerys and her dragons had even arrived in Westeros and when she did, she burned the rest.” Sansa finishes her tale. “Garlan Tyrell volunteered for the Watch the day of the battle of Bitterbridge. That at least is what I was told.”

Father exhales sharply. “The more I hear of...”

“The other life.” Sansa supplies.

“Yes.” He smiles down at her though the smile is small and bitter. “The more I hear of your other life the less I like it.”

Sansa's smile is small and bitter in response. “I did not like it much either.” She admits. “But it was my life. I never thought I would get … this.”

Father looks down at her face for a long moment, before sighing. He looks back at their two guards, far enough away to not overhear a word they speak but close enough to jump in in the case of an attack. “Lord Arryn asked me to help him get the Queen off the throne.”

Sansa's heart drops though she does not know why she is surprised. In the other life, Jon Arryn had figured Cersei's lie out before his death. He must have known for more than a year already. “Why now?”

Father grimaces. “He and Stannis are the only two who know. Jon was afraid, and rightfully so, that Robert would not believe Stannis. He hopes Robert will take it better if I am the one to tell him.”

Sansa frowns. “Stannis knew in … before, as well. He sent a letter around after Robert's death informing everyone of Joff. I could never figure out why he and Lord Arryn did not do anything before Lord Arryn’s death.” To be fair, Sansa thought, she had barely thought much about it in any way.

“Stannis and Robert are not close.” Father explains. “They never were and I fear they never will be. Robert trusts me and I believe Jon Arryn believes Robert will most likely not start a war if I am there to mediate.” Father comes to a stop by the castle wall and they overlook the sprawling fields of the Reach below Highgarden. Then he adds: “Besides, Jon Arryn only found definitive proof earlier this year. They did not want to go to Robert with no proof.”

Sansa swallows at the implications. Much of Joff’s claim to the throne, or rather most of Stannis’s claim to the throne had failed since he had no proof about his claim of Joff’s parentage. She watches Father as he rests his forearms on the castle wall and looks out silently. “What does Lord Arryn expect will happen?”

Father sighs heavily. “Robert will marry again and we can only pray the Lannisters do not decide to retaliate.” He sighs heavily. “The two Princes cannot be spared, but I expect Princess Myrcella will join the Silent Sisters. Mayhaps I can convince Robert to send Prince Tommen to the Wall.”

And Ser Jaime and the Queen would certainly be executed for treason, Sansa thinks.

 

“ _Queen Sansa a letter from King’s Landing has arrived.” The Steward looks uncomfortable as Sansa’s attention turns to him. “It...” He coughs and looks down at the letter again. “It has a Dragon Seal, your grace.”_

_Dragons? Sansa takes the letter from the Steward and opens it quickly, curiously._

To all Lords of Westeros, from the Crown under the pen of Missandei:

The Pretender King Tommen Waters and the King Mother Cersei Lannister have been executed by the will of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and Princess of Dragonstone. As pretender to the Iron Throne, Tommen Waters was executed by fire.

Signed, **The Crown.**

_Sansa swallows heavily. In a strange way, she had always thought Cersei to be near immortal. The letter made no note of how Cersei had been executed, but Sansa could not think it more pleasant than poor Tommen’s death by fire. Now Cersei was dead, and a strange Queen from the East sat on the Iron Throne._

 

“Sansa.” Father touches Sansa’s shoulders and she takes herself out of the memory. Rumors of Cersei’s death had reached even Winterfell much later, rumors of Cersei being found dead in her cell without Daenerys playing any part in her death. Sansa never asked Daenerys about the truth, wanting to allow the Queen some rest in her death.

“Sansa, what did you think of just now?” Father asks.

“How Cersei died in my other life.” She smiles, and Father’s jerk of surprise is muted, but Sansa sees it nevertheless. “A lot of people died, Father.”

He grimaces visibly. “I forget sometimes you are not my 12 year old daughter.” It hurts Sansa, somewhere deep down. “You are so angry and I … Sansa I apologize.” He must have seen her flinch, gathering her into a hug. “I did not mean you are not my daughter. But you were a happy girl who loved nothing more than fanciful stories and now you have seen much to much for a girl your age.”

Sansa doesn’t respond for a moment before smiling, sadly. She knows her own innocence is a lost cause. “I have. But I am doing all I can that Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon can stay home.”

Father flinches at that, she can feel it through the hug. “They will.”

 

*

 

Margaery’s pretty face beams the moment she spots Sansa. “Oh Lady Sansa!” Margaery rushes towards her, a large smile on her face, and she presses two kisses on each of Sansa's cheeks. “You have made it!”

Sansa smiles back, taking in all of Margaery, in her rather bright green gown that seems too fine for a day in the boxes. “Thank you for inviting me, my lady.”

Margaery laughs, delightedly, and she beckons one of her cousins – Alla, Sansa thinks – to bring two cups of wine. “Drink a toast with me, my lady.”

Sansa accepts the cup with a tentative look. Margaery lifts her own and smiles warmly at Sansa. “To new friendships.” Sansa echoes her and takes a small sip of the wine.

“Good isn’t it.” Margaery asks with a wink. “Arbor Gold.”

“It is.” Sansa agrees. “Have I missed anything from the Tourney? I apologize for my tardiness, my lady.”

“Oh it is no matter!” Margaery says, though she is immediately distracted by the latest pairing. She stands and cheers for both knights. “What a showing!”

Sansa takes a seat beside Margaery and watches the knights.

“Have you ever been at a Tourney?” Margaery asks lightly.

Sansa nods. “Yes once, visiting my grandfather at Riverrun.” She smiles. “But it was not as grand as this one is.”

Margaery’s laugh rings clearly over the moment of quiet. “You are kind to say so, my lady. I absolutely adore tourneys, it is such a shame you do not have them in the north.”

“We have many melees.” Sansa tells Margaery. “It is impractical to joust in the North when the snows stand too tall for any horse to properly gallop.”

Margaery turns to her in surprise. “You do not ride in the North?”

“Oh we do.” Sansa says. “Just rarely in the depth of winter. Horses cannot traverse the snow once it stands very deeply.”

“Then how do you travel during the winter?”

“Either by foot, or by sled. In true winter everyone who leaves the castle wears what we call snow shoes, which are like sleds beneath the feet that stop you from sinking into the snow.” Sansa herself had never used snow shoes before but her father had told her many tales.

Margaery looks curious when Sansa looks over at her. “The North is so different from the Reach.”

Sansa laughs. “It is.”

“It is so interesting. I would love to visit Winterfell one day.” Margaery sounds somewhat sincere and Sansa smiles at her. “I like hearing about places so different from Highgarden.”

“I am sure we would be welcome to host you should you ever wish to visit.”

“My maester recently taught me about the Stark family history.” Margaery says lightly. “Your family has been ruling over the North for longer than any other house in Westeros. It was so fascinating.”

Sansa looks over at Margaery sharply. She still does not know what the Tyrell’s endgame is … She cannot think of a good reason for them to basically court her. “Winters in the North are hard and long.” Sansa says, deflecting the statement Margaery had let hang in the air.

“Of course.” Margaery smiles sweetly. Then, rather suddenly, her attention is gone, focused on the joust. Margaery rises to cheer, loudly, and Sansa watches as Margaery chants her brother’s name in time with her claps. People around them chime in and Sansa is soon swept up in the sounds.

Margaery would make a fine Queen, Sansa thinks not for the first time. She had been Queen by Tommen’s side for nearly 3 years in the other lifetime, always overshadowed and overruled by Cersei. A Margaery whose Queenship was not threatened by a single person would be a fine thing to see indeed, Sansa thinks. People adore Margaery, willing to do nearly anything for her. She would make a fine Queen.

A murmur of disappointment goes through the crowd as Garlan Tyrell falls of his horse on the third tilt and Margaery too sighs in disappointment. Garlan only laughs as he stands up and waves to the crowd, which erupts into loud cheers.

Sansa hears loud laughter from beside them, and she looks over to see Princess Myrcella leaning away from Joffrey's cruel mirth. Sansa's eye wanders to Cersei, who takes a swig from her goblet and ignores her children before her just as much as she ignores the King beside her flirting with a maid.

“What a shame.” Margaery says. “Garlan was never a jouster as talented as Loras or Willas, but I am sure he will be very disappointed indeed.”

“He did well, my lady.” Sansa says.

Margaery’s smile in return is almost blinding. “You are sweet to say so.”

The next match is uninteresting. A seasoned Tyrell Knight jousts a young Baratheon man off his horse in a tilt, and Margaery lets out a whoop of excitement.

“My lord, there is a-” Sansa turns to the familiar voice of her father, who leans down to whisper in the Kings ear. King Robert looks very unhappy as he shoos the Maid away, and gets up heavily. Sansa watches them until Father and the King leave her eyesight and as she turns to look back, she sees Cersei staring at her.

Sansa nearly flinches when the deep green eyes interlock with hers and Cersei paints an insincere, unsteady smile on her face as they look at each other. Sansa bends her head into an approximation of a respectful bow and when she looks back up, Cersei has looked away again. Her hands are sweating, Sansa notes with some terrible amusement.

“Sansa?” Margaery asks, voice amused.

“Hmm?” Sansa turns back to the other Lady and smiles. “Pardon, did you say something?”

Margaery breaks out into peals of tiny giggles. “Oh I called your name several times.” She laughs again. “What were you so interested in?” Margaery makes a point of looking into the direction Sansa was looking in. “Oooh, was it the crown prince?”

Sansa represses the urge to immediately deny the statement. “I was-”

“Oh, do not worry.” Margaery laughs. “He is very handsome, is he not?”

Sansa swallows her pride and adopts an embarrassed little smile. “He is.” She says softly.

Margaery's eyes glint with interest. “Would that not be a wonderful thing, marrying a Prince?”

Sansa jolts back, not able to hide her surprise. She has wondered if the Tyrells plan to marry Margaery to Joff, they had the last time, but she had never thought Margaery would ever be so brazen to say so.

Margaery thankfully interprets her surprise differently. “Oh I have thought about it too, my lady.” She giggles. “I would so like to be the Queen.”

Sansa smiles. “You would be a lovely Queen, my lady.” She says, sweetly.

Margaery looks at Sansa for a long moment, before smiling warmly. “You are kind to say so, my lady.” Then she adds, conspiratorially. “Do you know to whom you will be betrothed to?”

“No.” Sansa shakes her head. “I do not believe I am betrothed yet”

“Is your brother Lord Robb not married?” Margaery asks, confused. “Surely he cannot be much older than you.”

“Robb is 15, my lady.”

“That is early for a boy to marry.” Margaery says. “My brother Willas is almost 10 years older and yet still not married.”

“My brother and his wife are in love.” Sansa says with a smile. “They are a very good match.”

“Lord Robb Stark married for love?” Margaery asks, sounding rather bemused. “I can barely imagine.”

Sansa nods, deciding not to mention the factor of the pending War for Winter in her mother’s decision to speed up Robb’s nuptials. The more Starks capable of taking the Throne in Winterfell, and stopping any man like Roose Bolton from holding Winterfell, the better. “Meera is the daughter of one of my lord father’s bannermen. She knows the North well. She will be a fine Lady of Winterfell.”

Margaery nods.

Sansa jumps in surprise as the loud hacking coughs beside them interrupt Margaery. As she turns, Sansa sees Cersei bracing herself on Joffrey's shoulder, her head a strange red color.

“Mama?” Joffrey looks panicked, face younger than Sansa has seen him yet as he holds his mother who is coughing still.

“Oh my Gods!” Margaery exclaims, shrill and panicked. She stands suddenly, hand clasped over her mouth and the other holding Sansa’s tightly.

 

“ _Petyr?” Sansa says quietly, catching Petyr's attention. “Do you know? Who killed Joffrey?”_

_Petyr smiles at her from across the carriage, putting a hand on her knee and rubbing his thumb along the bone. Sansa shudders at the touch and swallows against the heavy feeling in her throat. “Why does it matter now?”_

“ _I want to learn from everyone else's mistakes.” Sansa says, after a moment of ponder. “And Joff made the mistake of trusting someone he should not have trusted.”_

_Petyr smiles proudly. “I do know.” He leans forward. “What will you give me for the information, Alayne?”_

“ _Sansa.” She corrects him._

“ _Sansa then.” Petyr's thumb stops moving. “The Tyrells. They poisoned him.”_

 

Sansa's head spins to stare at her, suddenly remembering Joff choking at the wedding. Was _this_ the Tyrell's plan? Kill Cersei and then what? Sansa could not think of a way this could be advantageous to the Tyrells. Marrying Robert to Marg would still leave Joffrey as crown prince, and whatever children Margaery would have would stand behind Cersei's in inheritance. Marrying Margaery to Joffrey would make killing Cersei superfluous.

“Someone get a maester!”

Cersei collapses, wheezing for air. Joffrey is pulled down with her and Sansa stays frozen in place as she watches a Lannister Guard moving onlookers out of the way.

“Mama!” Myrcella cries out as a Guard moves her out of the way. Sansa’s heart breaks for the young girl, who clutches at her skirts with white knuckles. Sansa makes a movement towards her and the Guard is quick to snap Sansa’s hand away. Before Sansa can even react to the pain shuddering through her arm, Dorris is there in a split moment, positioning himself between them.

“Oh Gods.” Margaery whispers. She is pale and wide-eyed as she stares at the Queen, who is by now tended to by the local maester. Joffrey stands back now, looking so much younger than his age, and held by one of the Queens ladies.

“My lady, do you wish to leave?” Dorris asks softly.

Sansa shakes her head, still numbed in shock. The Queen lies limp and pale on the stretcher, though clearly breathing again. She is carried away and Sansa is left with a sense of terrible dread as the magnitude of the events hit her all at once.

Someone has poisoned the Queen.

 

*

 

“Everything I know is becoming more and more useless the more things change.” Sansa says, bitterly. “I did not know this was going to happen.”

Father looks at her from his seat at his desk, a deep frown on his face. “Calm yourself Sansa.”

“The more things like this happen, the less useful I will be.” Sansa continues, speaking over her fathers words. “The less useful Jon will be.”

“Sansa-”

“First Daenerys’ son and now Cersei!” Sansa paces up and down the office, a feeling of quiet dread still high up in her throat. “Cersei is...”

Father slams his fist down onto his desk, and Sansa falls quiet abruptly, staring at her father. “Sansa. Calm yourself. There is no use in fretting over this.”

Sansa takes a few steadying breathes, though she disagrees solemnly with Father’s assessment. Of course there was use in fretting over who may have attempted to poison Cersei Lannister. “Does Jon Arryn have an inkling of who may have been the poisoner?”

“No.” Father sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “The Lannisters are furious, blaming everyone from the Tyrells to us even.”

“Us?” Sansa exclaims in horror. “Why us?”

“Cersei has blamed all.” Father says appeasingly. “She did not single us out in true.”

“I do not like her speaking of us at all.” Sansa says, shortly. “And you should not either.”

“No one even knows how she was poisoned, Sansa.” Father tells her. “There were no traces found in her food nor her wine.”

“None?” Sansa asks, raising an eyebrow. “Does the Maester or the Septon know of any other …”

“Jon says it may have been delivered by touch.” Father looks as though the world is resting on his shoulders. His hand sweeps through his hair, leaving it disheveled and untidy. “Sansa. Jon asked me to join him in the investigation.”

“Join him?” Sansa asks.

“At King’s Landing. The Queen refuses to stay at Highgarden, she wishes to go back to King’s Landing and the Royal Household will join her.” Father says.

Sansa’s heart drops. King’s Landing? She would do anything for Father not to go to King’s Landing. “You cannot!” She exclaims. “Please Father!” She steps forward and takes both of his in her own hands. “I know you did not live through it as I did. But you must believe me, King’s Landing is nothing but a pit of snakes pretending to be men.

“Sansa-” Father sighs heavily. “I must! The Throne must not fall and from what you have told me, darling, the throne cannot fall to the Prince either.”

“Please father! Do not do this. Jon Arryn will find the culprit himself, you must not go to King’s Landing.” Sansa pleads.

“I must, Sansa. I must.”

 

*

 

“Oh this is all so terrible.” Margaery exclaims, tears in her big hazel eyes. “I pray to the Mother for the Queens swift recovery and to the Stranger that you may find what vile person did this.”

She stands before the assembled room, dressed in a gown of stunning gray silk and golden highlights. Her curls tumble over her shoulder and she looks so young and beautiful, Sansa looks at the people in the room to sense their reaction.

Jon Arryn looks mildly amused, leaning back in his chair while stroking his beard. Sansa’s own father can barely conceal his annoyance, though Sansa hopes not everyone in the room can read him as well as she can. Prince Joffrey barely pays attention to Margaery, looking down at the floor, but Princess Myrcella smiles tearily, sniffling every few moments.

Lady Tyrell smiles fondly at her daughter, while Lady Olenna has a smile on her face. Surely this display was orchestrated by Olenna, Sansa thinks as a tear rolls down Margaery’s cheek and Loras rushes forward to gather his sister in a hug.

“Pardon me, your grace.” Margaery says, after composing herself. She looks at the King with a shy smile. “It is all just so terrible.”

The Kings chair creaks as he leans forward. “My Lady is too kind. Your prayers are well received.” His eyes track Margaery’s every move, unconsciously licking his lips. Gods, Sansa thinks, if this was the Tyrells plan, it was working out splendidly. Expect for one major detail: Cersei was not dead, nor no longer in any danger of actually dying.

“What my daughter wishes to say, your grace,” Lady Tyrell stands up and moves closer to the King, “is that we were honored your Grace visited Highgarden, but we naturally understand the need to return home.”

“We thank you for your understanding.” Jon Arryn says.

With that the Tyrells sweep out of the room, leaving behind a tense silence.

“Is your household packed, Ned?” Jon Arryn asks.

“We barely unpacked,” Father says wryly, “have not been here much more than a day.”

“Probably didn’t even bring much did you, Ned?” The King exclaims, loudly. “You and your children going to join us in King’s Landing?”

“Aye, your grace.”

“That is good.” The King says. “It is such a shame to hide your beautiful daughters away in that icy hellscape of yours.”

Sansa feels Arya shrink into herself by her side, as nearly everyone turns to look at them. Sansa smiles tightly, uncomfortable with the Kings gaze on her. “Your Grace is very kind.” She says sweetly, ducking her head.

A flash of disappointment flashes through the Kings face. “Taught them well, that Septa of your daughters did, Ned.” He says. “Such a shame. You beat all the North out of them. Even your younger one.”

Arya bristles, falling still when Sansa lies one hand on her knee.

“My daughters were raised well, your grace.” Father says, his voice just hard enough to be disrespectful.

The King however, only laughs. “You know Lyanna was raised well too, but she was still a spitfire.”

Sansa looks over at Father, who flinches at his sisters mention. “Your Grace-”

“The little one looks like her too, right?” The King looks over Arya, a long, lingering look that makes Sansa feel strange. He addresses them both. “So do you know of your aunt or does your father refuse to talk about her with you as well?”

Sansa bites her lip as Father flinches. Arya looks over at Sansa for a moment, before clearing her throat. “I know of Aunt Lyanna.”

“She was a very beautiful woman. You look very much like her.” The King smiles broadly. “Joffrey! Do you know who we are talking about, boy?”

Sansa holds her breath as Joffrey turns his glare to his father. His voice is flat as he answers. “The woman you went to war for.”

The King booms a laugh. “Take care you marry a girl you can actually stand being around.” HE stands. “Otherwise you will end up hating your Queen.”

Sansa suppresses a grimace at the words. Joffrey looks furious, angry at his mothers behalf and Sansa understands that. Myrcella however looks very upset, tears gathering in her eyes.

“Your Grace.” Sansa stands, a pleasant smile on her face. “May my sister and I take Princess Myrcella on a small walk through the Rose Garden?”

She is not surprised when the King waves her off with a hand. She curtsies, motioning Arya to follow her lead, and walks Princess Myrcella out with a hand on the small of the other girls back. Dorris, Arya’s guard Kole and Myrcella’s guard Arys Oakheart follow a few steps behind.

Thyra spots them first, standing up taller and smiling a smile that bares many of her teeth when she recognizes the southerners among them. Sansa rolls her eyes, but does not tell Thyra off in favor of telling Jeyne to prepare a small afternoon tea back in her chamber.

Myrcella stands back, looking as though she were rather anywhere else than among these strange women, and Sansa approaches her as she would a frightened horse.

“Princess, may I introduce my lady companions?” Sansa asks. “As I understand you are usually accompanied by your cousins, is that correct? Should I call for them?”

“Rosamund stayed at King’s Landing.” Princess Myrcella says, near silent. “I am not accompanied by anyone.”

“Well then Princess you mustn’t shy from mine.” Sansa smiles.

“These two are Alys Karstark and Wylla Manderly.” The two ladies in question smile kindly at Myrcella. “You mustn’t be turned off by Wylla’s hair color, she is the most wondrous braider I have ever met.”

Wylla laughs. “My fathers forebears were actually from the Reach, my lady, resettling from the Mander to the White Knife many years ago.”

“It is nice to make your acquaintances, my ladies.” Myrcella curtsies sweetly.

“This is Jenny Umber.” Sansa smiles as Myrcella’s mouth falls open just slightly as she takes in Jenny’s large frame.

“You must see my brothers, Princess.” Jenny says, corners of her mouth twitching. She is used to being stared at, Sansa thinks, being the size she is. “They are another head spans taller than I am at least.”

“I apologize, my lady.” Myrcella says softly, blushing a deep red.

Against the cultured King’s Landing accent, Jenny’s harsh northern accent stands out more than usual as she says: “It is no worry, Princess.”

“And I am Thyra Magnar.” Thyra introduces herself, her Skagossi accent even more pronounced than usual and Sansa wonders if it is on purpose. “I teach Lady Sansa her tongues.”

“And the one who just left was Jeyne Poole, daughter of my fathers steward.” Sansa finishes the introductions.

“It is a pleasure.” Myrcella says again. She hides her face behind a curtain of golden curls.

Sansa eyes the young girl with pity. She always liked Myrcella, who had never deserved any of the things that had happened to her in Sansa’s previous life. “Would you like to accompany us to a walk in the Rose Garden and a tea afterwards?”

Myrcella looks over at her guard, and then nods. “I would enjoy that very much, my lady.”

“Oh you must call me Sansa, your grace.”

“Myrcella.” She offers in turn and Sansa smiles broadly.

“Myrcella then. So tell me, what is your favorite thing about King’s Landing? I have heard a great many things about the Red Keep and if we are to visit you must tell me everything!” Sansa hooks Myrcella’s arm into her elbow and they start their slow journey through the Rose Garden while Myrcella tells Sansa all she knows of King’s Landing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are finally speeding this thing up and finally getting the party started! 
> 
> i found myself struggling with the pov this chapter, but i decided to keep this solely with Sansa's POV since it is ultimately her story. check out the small one shot I posted from Jon Arryn's perspective!
> 
> thank you all again for every kudos, review and bookmark!
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: We have officially passed 2000 kudos which is INSANE! Thank you all kudos, reviews and bookmarks! I started this on travels through Europe and when I decided to actually work this into a proper story I never in a million years thought it would get this kind of response! Thank you all so so much!


	17. King's Landing - 299, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Cities, Conversations And Revelations.

The Red Keep is everything Sansa remembers. Ugly, stinking and a pit of horrifying people in a horrifying place. She hates it all anew from the moment they step foot into the city and she does a terrible job of hiding her disdain.

Myrcella appears confused as she notices Sansa’s disdain, both of them looking out of the wheelhouse window, and Sansa smiles down at her. “It is so different from my home.” Sansa explains to Myrcella, ignoring Cersei’s scoff from the other side of the wheelhouse.

She had found herself in the Queens presence more often than not in the recent weeks on their way to the Crownlands. Cersei refused to let Myrcella be alone with the Starks and Sansa had not known how to politely refuse Myrcella’s offer to ride with the two Lannister women. Besides, riding in the Queens wheelhouse allowed Sansa to observe the Queen and befriend Myrcella simultaneously.

The Queen was more paranoid now, after her poisoning, and she despises Sansa, much to Myrcella’s dismay. More often than not, the Queen spoke of barbaric northerners, being so offensive most of Sansa’s ladies refused to go anywhere near the Queen. Especially Thyra was incensed, routinely asking Sansa why she rode with the Lannisters at all. Still, Sansa could see a subtle change in this Queen to the Cersei Sansa had known. She was warmer to her children, but much colder to the King and anyone else. Sansa was looking forward to see how Cersei would speak with Jaime, who had not accompanied the Royal Family to Highgarden.

“What do you mean?” Myrcella asks.

Sansa smiles. “Winterfell is...” She struggles for the correct word. “Winterfell is clean, crisp. It is hard to explain, but the walls are made of granite and most everyone lives inside stone houses and most of the streets are cobbled and very large.”

“No stinking smallfolk.” Cersei says coldly. “That is what is different.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Apologies, your grace, however there is smallfolk in Winterfell. During winter, smallfolk from all around the North come to Winter Town located just outside the walls.”

“Winter Town?” Myrcella asks, eyes lighting up.

Sansa smiles fondly. Myrcella was fascinated with the North, asking questions about everything Sansa mentioned and so happy to learn more and more and more. She was a very bright girl and Sansa wished there were any way to marry her to Bran. Of course it would not do to marry a Princess to a second son. Nor would father marry Bran to the product of incest.

“Aye, Winter Town sits just outside of Winterfell’s walls and is barely inhabited during the Summer, but in the winter smallfolk and nobility alike come to Winter’s Town to seek our aid. It has stood for centuries, if not millennia, and can house several thousand people at once.” She explains.

Myrcella’s eyes light. “So you aid the smallfolk in the winter?”

“Aye. That is the oath the Starks made to the North and for which we got their loyalty in stead.”

“How do you feed them all?” Myrcella asks. “Surely that must overstretch the coffers during winter.”

“Most bring part of their harvest with them when winter starts and we prepare for it. Two thirds of all harvests are stored for winter, so we may not starve should a long one come.” Sansa says. “And there are fields around Winterfell that grow foods that thrive in the cold.”

Myrcella nods, a pondering expression on her face. “King’s Landing is dependent on the Reach, is it not mother?”

Queen Cersei looks surprised at being addressed, but she humors her daughter. “Aye, we are.”

A knock at the wheelhouse door startles all three of them. Sansa smooths down her hair and watches Myrcella and the Queen do much the same. It is Arys Oakheart who opens the door and aids the Lannisters down from the wheelhouse before helping Sansa as well.

Sansa breathes in as she steps outside into the sun, closing her eyes for a moment until the sounds of the Capitol slam into her. They have arrived through a southern gate, so there are no smallfolk gathering around the square. Still Sansa can hear the tumult of the streets below the Red Keep.

She excuses herself then, sinking in a deep courtesy before both Lannister women, and leaves for the Stark party. They are further back and Father waves at her from his horse.

“Enjoy your journey with the Queen?” Jenny calls, teasing. “You must surely be full of energy from such a leisure form of travel.”

Sansa smiles. “I am well, my lady. How are you faring?”

Most of the Norths revenue had been laughing about the travel pace since they had left from Highgarden. While Jon Arryn and Father mostly rode either far ahead or behind, so that no one could listen to whatever they spoke about, the other stark men rode within the Royal Party. It was the speed of the Queen’s wheelhouse that considerably slowed down the group and it had taken them over a moons turn to cover the distance from Highgarden to King’s Landing.

They are brought to their chambers by a servant with a distinct Lannister look. They are within the Hand’s Tower, a mark of respect even for Lord Arryn’s former foster son. Sansa smiles as she takes in the view from the windows, looking down on the slums of King’s Landing. It is not a nice smile.

“My Lady?” Thyra approaches her. “May we speak?”

Sansa looks over at her, startled. Thyra has not asked much of her since coming onto her service, content in staying quiet in the background. “Of course.” She says in the Old Tongue.

Thyra smiles at the language, but the smile drops quickly. “There is something in the air.” She responds in the Old Tongue as well.

Sansa looks back out onto the city sprawling below them. “Aye.” She says, switching back to the Common Tongue. Her grasp of the language is not firm enough for this kind of discussion. “Is there anything in specific you can feel?”

Thyra shakes her head with a frown. “Not as such. Just,” the furrow in her brow deepens, “a feeling.”

Sansa is not one to disregard the feelings of a lady of the north, when the gut of them have saved Sansa’s life a great many times before. Mayhaps not in this lifetime, but in a one long past. “I would ask you to stay vigilant.” Sansa says. “I cannot be at all places at all times.”

Thyra looks meaningfully at her. “I may play a mouse.”

Sansa grins and responds in the Old Tongue as well. “If you wish.”

  


*

  


_To Lady Sansa Stark, from Robb Stark of Winterfell:_

My dear little sister. I hope you have arrived at King’s Landing in good health and good fortune.

I and Meera are doing well also. In fact we have wonderful news! Meera is pregnant. She has missed 3 moon’s bloods and Maester Luwin is certain she is pregnant with a child that will be born within the last month of this year. I will admit I am petrified. Meera is young yet and young mother have not always fared well in childbirth, but Mother assures me that 15 is a perfectly normal age for women to have children. Still, the idea of a person growing in Meera is difficult to comprehend. The babe might have my hair, or Meera, and my eyes, or Meera’s. The possibilities are endless!

Mother is furious that you are not coming home immediately. Her exact words I believe were “If that husband of mine misses the birth of this child, I will never lay with him again”, but I was never supposed to hear that. Since I did, I am sharing the horror with you, dearest sister of mine. Mother is as large as an elk by now. Maester Luwin believes the babe will be another boy, citing the low seat of it. Mother however is quite certain it will be a girl. We shall see. It is strange to know that my own child will be born only a few months after my sibling. I do hope they grow up to be wonderful friends. On that note, I will admit, dearest sister, if you and the others are not home by the time my child is born I will be very angry with all of you.

It was not just Mother who was irate you are not coming home immediately. Jon is very unhappy indeed, sulking around the castle with his long and gloomy face – scaring Rickon and the servants. Of course, his sulk could also be because of rumors I heard about a wildling lady taking his fancy, but Jon has neither confirmed nor denied that to me. He is doing well however. He returned from bringing the Free Folk to their towns just a fortnight past. It delights me to announce that our darling brother has a new nickname among the men of the north. Lord Nanny. While his assignment of settling the Free Folk is surely more important than the job of a nanny – and please do not tell Jon I have said this, as he nearly took the head off of the first man who called him such to his face – I believe his new nickname suits Jon. He is doing well otherwise. He misses you, Arya, Bran and Father fiercely.

As promised, I have been running interference between Jon and Mother. Jon does well staying out of her way by himself, with his duties in Freetown and at Winterfell. He does not sit with us at dinner at the moment – Mother would not allow it, but I doubt Jon minds much. As I have implemented Father’s rule of sitting with someone sworn to the Starks during each meal, Jon sometimes sit with us – but that is only for the affairs of state. Mother does accept that. I fear she is still very angry with Father, and perhaps even you. I feel as though she feels betrayed by you, for not telling her sooner. I have attempted to make her see reason, but I fear you must do so when you return North.

We are also still adjusting to the Free Folk settled beside Winterfell. They live on the opposite side of Winter’s Town, by the castle walls, and have started building strange huts of mud and wood. I am constantly afraid the next gusty wind will knock them right over, but when I raised my concerns with Vayon – not Poole, but the man the Free Folk have designated as their emissary to us. In regards to that, Lord Poole is furious that he shares the name with a man he has to deal so frequently with, which, ~~no matter what Mother says~~ , is very amusing – Vayon (the Wildling) has assured me that, and I quote: “We know more about building than you pansy kneelers”. I am not so sure he speaks true, but Mother has advised I keep silent for now. Their town is being called Freetown by themselves, and the rather crude Savage Town by many in Winter’s Town and Winterfell. I am trying to find a name that will catch on and not offend any party, but I am not having much luck in that regards. Perhaps you could send some ideas?

While most of the northern smallfolk and the Free Folk are still wary of each other, there is one person who has been universally accepted. Old Nan is the favorite person of the Free Folk. I have heard the epitaph “Wise Nan” used. It fits well. They ask her to tell them stories. Rickon has taken to following her into Freetown, much to mother’s distress, and we all try our best to keep him and Shaggy in Winterfell, but that boy is much too underfoot. I have found him in the Broken Tower recently. Mother is too tired and too pregnant to follow him around, so that dubious duty has fallen to Maester Luwin most of the time. I fear the poor man is very stressed.

I have written to Father also, with small paragraphs for Arya and Bran both. I tell you, so that you may remind Father and the thought does not get lost in whatever work Father does now. I do miss you desperately, sister dearest, and I pray to the Gods, Old and New, that you come home soon. **Robb**

  


  


*

  


Sansa freezes in her tracks as she hears the voices from her father’s solar.

“-understand, Jon.” Father says. He sounds tired. “I know it does but my wife is about to give birth to our sixth child and I wish for my children to all be together when baby is born.”

“Will the eldest not marry a Lord here in the south?” Lord Arryn says. “She will make a good wife for someone.”

Sansa holds her breath as she waits for Father’s reply.

“Aye.” Father says. “But she will marry a Northern Lord.”

There is a pause in the conversation. “Does Cat not want to marry her to a Riverland Lord?”

“Starks have never fared well in the South, Jon.” Father says.

Jon Arryn scoffs. “What happened to your sister, brother and father were the deed of two mad Targaryen men. You cannot lock your family in the north just because of that.”

“It’s more than just them, my lord.” Father sounds tired. “My aunt, Branda, married a stormlord and was killed, with her daughter, while sleeping in her own bed at night. They slit her throat for a perceived slight. Torrhen’s daughter, Leia Stark, was married to a Targaryen Loyalist after the Conquer to secure the peace. She endured the abuse of this city only to die when her brute of a husband forced a child on her 12 year old body.”

“All the families have stories like that, Ned.” Jon Arryn says. “You cannot be saying you fear for your children's safety here in the castle.”

There is a pause long enough Sansa wonders if they have left the room, before Father answers. “No, my lord. But I miss my wife, my family and I only wish to go home.”

Jon Arryn is silent for so long Sansa would like to know his face – if only to see if he is distressed or disturbed in any way. “I would not repeat such things in the presence of the King, my lord.”

Father is silent for a moment. “I meant no-”

“I know Ned.” Jon Arryn interrupts him. “Yet there are many in the South who will not know it is meant innocently.”

“Has the court truly gone so paranoid?” Father asks, an angry tone to his voice. “That a man cannot even share the dreadful things that have happened to his family. I spoke no other word.”

Jon Arryn stays quiet for a moment. “There is much at court that can make any man or woman paranoid.” He says heavily. “You must only look at my wife for that.”

“Is it truly that bad, my lord?” Father asks. “Have you thought of setting her aside?”

Sansa holds her breath as she waits for Lord Arryn’s answer. Something must have happened after Sansa’s letter of warning, to have made Lord Arryn send his wife back to the Eyrie. Mayhaps, she thinks, he found out about her plot to kill him.

Lord Arryn answers after a long pause. “I could not do so in fear of disrespecting the Tully’s.” He sighs, heavily. “But I have thought of doing so. I fear she is poisoning the mind of our son.”

“I would offer to foster him.” Father says. “It would do the boy well to spend some time with his family.”

“Several Lords in the Vale have made similar offers.” Lord Arryn reveals. “But I fear for my wife’s reactions should I take the lad away from her.”

“You are the boy’s father, my lord, surely your word-”

Jon Arryn interrupts him. “Lysa is deathly afraid of any separation between her and her child. I fear her miscarriages broke a part of her mind irreparably. She still breastfeeds the boy.”

“Then, surely, you must separate the two.” Father repeats his offer. “Cat would be thrilled to foster her nephew.”

“I could not possible foist that responsibility on you as well. Not with-” Lord Arryn stops himself. He is silent for a moment. “I would have you ask your wife before you bring two boys to the North.”

Sansa frowns. Who would the second boy be? Was Father going to foster another child? Sansa could not think of any boy of the fostering age whose fostering Father would have brokered in the south.

“Cat would be not mind.” Father says.

Sansa knows that would probably not be true. She had only been a small child herself when Theon had arrived after the Greyjoy Rebellion, but yet she remembered the frosty silence between her parents for the first month of Theon’s fostering.

“Aye.” Lord Arryn sighs, heavily. There is a sound from the room, sounding as though Lord Arryn has stood up. “Well Ned, I will tell the King you wish to send the children north for their sibling’s birth. But Ned, you must know you cannot leave now.”

“And I do not wish to, Jon, I swear it. I will not abandon you, before,” Father pauses, “the father of the children is revealed.” Sansa almost laughs at the description. “I just wish to send my children north.”

Sansa hears footsteps coming and quickly scrambles back, before striding forward confidently. She meets Lord Arryn at the door. He looks surprised to see her for a moment, before greeting her with a smile. “Lady Sansa.”

“Lord Arryn.” Sansa says sweetly. “I hope I am not disturbing you and my father.”

“Oh no, dear girl.” Lord Arryn passes by her. “Have a nice day.”

“You as well, Lord Arryn.” Sansa watches him leave. He is an old man yet and Sansa can only pray he does not die before Father leaves for the North again. At least, she thinks, it seems as though she, Arya and Bran will be leaving for the North soon. Sansa will breath easier once they do.

“Sansa?” Father calls from inside the solar. “Are you-”

She enters the room with what she hopes is an innocent and untroubled expression. She must manage as Father only smiles at her. “I got a letter from Robb. He mentioned he wrote to you as well and added a few lines for Bran and Arya. Should I bring it to them?”

“Oh,” Father laughs lightly, “I will tell them what he said in person. Robb has forgotten that I would rather not expose them to matters of state.”

Sansa frowns. She knows that Father would like to count her among those as well, but she wants to know. She feels like she needs to know. “You should.” She says softly. He frowns, looking up at her. “Robb may not live forever, Father. Bran and Rickon and Arya should be prepared for all eventualities.”

“Sansa-” Father sighs, heavily. He shakes his head once, twice and then looks at her so sadly. “What happened … before … will not happen again. Even if Robb and I should unexpectedly die, there is still your mother, Maester Luwin, Vayon Poole, Master Rodrik, and so many more at Winterfell able and especially willing to help. Bran is still so young, I don’t want to-”

“But they may not be there anymore.” Sansa says. She takes a seat opposite from Father and looks him in the eye as firmly as possible. “I know not a lot has happened in the last decade for you. But it did for me. You must think of it. We never thought any of it could happen. And when I returned North, Jon and I were the only ones left. There was no Maester Luwin, no Master Rodrik, no Vayon Poole. Not even Old Nan was alive anymore, torn to shreds by Ramsay Bolton’s dogs. I know what happened then will not happen the same now, but in a different fashion it might just still. And I need us to be prepared.” She pauses for a moment. “I need to be prepared.”

Father’s expression is so sad. He looks close to tears, an expression Sansa has never seen on him before. “Oh Sansa-”

She decides to go for the cruelest thing she can thinks of. “Did you think you would lose father and older brother in a day, sister in a year and younger brother to the watch?” She asks. Father flinches back, but she ruthlessly suppresses the guilt. “You were a second son, father. I do not know what your father intended for you. You might have been gifted a keep somewhere in the North, married a pretty northern lady and had a few children. You might not have. But all that is for naught. _You_ are Lord of Winterfell now.” She bites her lower lip and sighs. “I do not mean to be cruel, Father. I just, there is no certainty in this life. There will never be. And I need us to prepare for any eventuality. Even if that means teaching Bran of the horrors life can bring long before he should.”

Father’s face is thunderous. He stares at her, but Sansa does not back down. She keeps his gaze, unflinching and unwilling to look away. Yes, she was cruel, but it seems that she must repeat it until Father understands. _She_ understands the fickle nature of this time better than he does. She knows what may happen, what did happen, and what can never happen again.

“That was cruel, Sansa.” He watches her and then says. “I barely recognize you sometimes.”

Sansa barely manages not to react. That hurts, but it is deserved. “No.” She says. “That is fair. I am not your 13 year old daughter, my lord. I haven’t been in a very long time.”

Father looks away from her, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. “Leave please.”

Sansa stands, and curtsys. “You should think on my words, my lord.” She says and walks out of the room.

  


*

  


Everyone notices the frosty silence between her and Father. He is politely dismissive whenever Sansa is near. No one asks what happened, but Sansa can feel the interested stares. It makes Sansa uncomfortable, but she leaves Father alone and does not press him for his forgiveness, especially as she feels as though it is not needed.

“You should make peace with your lord father, my lady.” Thyra says, the most brash of all her ladies. “There is no good in fighting amongst ourselves here.”

Jeyne, sitting beside Thyra, makes a sound of gentle disapproval. “Do not talk of your lady like that, Thyra.”

Sansa waves her oldest and dearest friend off. “Thyra is right, but it is Father who needs to make the first step. He is angry with me and will not make peace unless some time has passed or he sees reason.” Arya, Septa Mordane and Wylla look up in interest at the mention of their fight. Sansa smiles grimly. “Is there anything else?”

“I heard from my new friend in Highgarden.” Alys says then. “Apparently the tourney ended with some moderate success, but whispers are that the Tyrells are very unhappy with how it went.”

“Which is not surprising considering the Queen got poisoned.” Jeyne says with a laugh.

Alys nods. “True, but Alisandra also wrote that Margaery Tyrell especially is very despondent. She spends less time than usual in the Rose Gardens and some say she spends her nights weeping in her room.”

Sansa shakes her head, fondly. How Alys got all these people to reveal the deepest secrets of their liege lords, she would never understand. “Is there any mention of anything else?”

“Not as such, my lady.” Alys shifts uncomfortably. “Apparently there is a rumor going around Highgarden that we had something to do with the poisoning of the Queen.”

“Why?” Jenny asks aghast.

Alys clears her throat. “According to Alisandra, people say that it was odd that no Starks come south usually and now so many did and the Queen got poisoned.”

Sansa laughs. “Well if that is all they say-”

“She says that no one truly believes the rumors, but she found them interesting enough to include them in her letter.” Alys sighs.

“It is the southerners thinking us all savages and wild folk that makes them point their fingers at us.” Jenny scoffs. “Why they would think we would use poison when we could just slit their throats is beyond me.”

There is a rush of light giggles all across the room. Sansa keeps her smirk to herself, until Septa Mordane sharply says: “Lady Umber! I beg of you.” and she cannot hold the laughter in.

It takes a few minutes for them to all calm down again, for every time most of them have settled one starts laughing again and they all start laughing again. Septa Mordane is supremely annoyed when they are all finally sober again. “Truly I do not know what is so funny about all this.” She says, primly. “There is nothing good to come of any less than proper rumors about you, Lady Sansa, Lady Arya or Lord Stark.”

“Oh you mustn’t worry so much, Septa.” Sansa says, sweetly. “I am sure there is little to worry about.”

The Septa’s mouth twists. “Of course I must worry, Lady Sansa. You will marry here in the South one day, the Prince if the Gods are good. There cannot be any rumors about you!”

Sansa pauses, gathering her words. “I do not know if I will marry in the south.” She says carefully. “I do not know if I want to.”

“Of course you do, girl.” the Septa says dismissively. “You’ll be Queen someday. I raised you to be Queen.”

Sansa looks at her dear Septa. She had given her life for Sansa once, trying to give Sansa enough time to flee. She had looked upon the Septa’s head next to Fathers and wept for them both. She had often wondered if it was only duty that made the Septa sacrifice herself for Sansa. She did not doubt the Septa was fond of Sansa, but fondness did not often warrant ones own death. Now, Sansa looked upon the Septa with keener eyes and an older mind. The Septa wished for power. She thought of Sansa as her stepping stool into political power, to have the ear of the Queen would be a step up for any man or woman.

“I will not be Queen.” Sansa says. “I do not wish to be Queen.”

The Septa looks disappointed, but she does not say anything anymore.

There is a silence for a brief moment, before dear Wylla interrupts it. “I received a letter from my father.” She surreptitiously looks over at Sansa. “He wrote of the Wildlings that settled on Manderly lands.”

They all sit up with interest. Not all of Sansa’s ladies agree with the resettlement of the wildlings. Thyra and Jenny, especially, have had rather furious discussions about it all.

“How have tempers fared?” Sansa asks, curiously. She has not heard much of it yet.

Wylla shrugs. “Fairly well. My uncle Wendel, who has been designated justice by your brother, has had to mediate a few territorial disputes between the smallfolk and the wildlings, but nothing where people have been killed.”

Sansa nods. “Good. Is Lord Wendel settling into his role?”

“As far as I have heard he has,” Wylla says, “but Father did not say anything contrary or in favor in his letter.”

Sansa, who had absolutely no say in the decision to make Wendel Manderly justice in White Harbor, smiles and says. “We have full faith in his judgment.”

“I would hope so considering he is enacting Winterfell’s justice.” Jenny says, dry as a bone. “Is that not the point of your justices? Winterfell’s justices are to keep the peace between two people who have not known peace in eight thousand years.”

Sansa looks at Jenny for a moment. “Aye. That is true.” She does not allow herself to smile. “Would you rather there were no peacekeepers.”

“Of course not, my lady.” Jenny says immediately. “I apologize for my harsh tone, my lady.”

Sansa doesn’t smile, but she nods at Jenny. “I understand that it is difficult to understand our decision to invite the Free Folk into the North, but you did not see the Others.”

“Neither did you, my lady.” Jenny says, softly chiding.

This time Sansa smiles, though she fears it is an ugly bitter thing. Yes I did, she thinks, and they feature in her nightmares several times a week. “No, I did not.”

  


*

  


Arya stands opposite of Sansa and grins. Her hair is bound in a knot at the back of her throat and she is dressed in a tunic and trousers. Arya looks so much like the sister Sansa had let ride off to the North, it takes her breath away for a brief moment.

“You should keep up with your training.” Arya tells Sansa. “Syrio says I have to be like a cat.”

“A cat?” Sansa asks. She keeps an eye trained on the wooden sword in Arya’s hand and shift the one in hers until it is more comfortable. “I could scarcely believe why a wolf should behave like a cat.”

Arya’s grin is sharp and thrilled. “Sometimes we must slip into the skins of other animals than wolves.”

Sansa’s smiles slips for a moment. “You have been warging?” She spoke to Arya about their gifts on the way to King’s Landing, after noticing Arya unresponsive at night. Sansa still has not been able to warg into Lady since they left for the South. She had not been able to warg with purpose before they had left and it seemed like even that tedious connection could not withstand the long distance. Arya however could warg with Nymeria despite their long distance.

Arya doesn’t seem to register Sansa’s discomfort. “Yes. I spied on Robb last night. Meera is not even visibly pregnant yet.” Arya seems very disappointed with that, but she lights up. “But Mother is gigantic.”

Sansa smiles. Gods, she misses Winterfell. She hates guarding her tongue every hour of the day, speaking in riddles whenever she speak of sensitive things. She wants to be back at Winterfell, where the cooks know her when she comes down for a late afternoon snack of lemoncakes, and where she is known and loved by the people. She would so like to be able to see Winterfell like Arya is, and like Sansa thinks Bran is able to, but she cannot. “That is nice. I hope we see the babe be born.”

Arya smiles and nods. “Come on Sansa, less chatting, more fighting.”

Sansa chuckles, but she obeys. She charges Arya, with a rather wild and theatrical cry, and let’s Arya parry her wild stab. Arya is much better than Sansa is. She has always been, but since Arya takes lessons with Syrio Forel her skills have improved by a tenfold. It still surprises Sansa that Father even organized the lessons with the man, but she is happy for Arya. It does her sister well. Arya has bloomed in the weeks of Forel’s tutelage.

Arya has Sansa on the ground quicker than Sansa likes, especially as Sansa gets the feeling Arya holds back. Still, Sansa laughs, and she gets up. “Again.” She says and Arya immediately attacks her again. Sansa can barely raise her sword for the parry, but she does and moves back against Arya.

“Move your feet quicker, girl.”

Sansa stumbles, landing on her butt, as she stares at the door with apprehension. Father and Syrio Forel stand in the doorway with two very different expressions on their faces. Syrio Forel smiles at both of them, though his gaze is fixed on Arya. Father however, stares at Sansa in quiet shock.

“Father!” Arya calls out. She helps Sansa up and smiles brilliantly at both men. Sansa holds back, watching Father’s reaction with care, as Arya bounds up to the men. “Are we doing a lesson now, Syrio?”

“Yes, girl.” Syrio says. “Though I see you already started early.”

Sansa smiles tightly as all three attentions turn to her. Arya only laughs, Father and Sansa forgotten at the sight of her teacher.

“Shall we leave the two to it, Father?” Sansa asks. She smiles at Father, though she is not certain he will return it. They have not had a proper conversation since their little fight over Father’s decision to be willfully blind to all Sansa knew.

Father looks at her for a brief moment, before he nods. “We shall.” They leave the room, walking a few steps apart from each other. Sansa cannot keep from feeling uneasy.

“You fought well. Did Arya teach you before?” Father asks, lightly.

Sansa looks up at him in surprise. “No, my lord.” She swallows and decides to throw Jon to the wolves. “Arya and I were taught some of the basics at Winterfell.”

Father nods. There is a tiny smile on his face before he hides it from her. “I was wondering where Arya learned some of her skills. Was it Robb?”

Sansa looks up at him for a moment. “Jon.” She reveals. “He had taught me some in, um, before.”

“So you decided to hide this from your Lord?” He asks and though the words are not funny, there is some amusement in his voice.

Sansa is too relieved to say much for a moment. “Pardon me, my lord.” She says.

“Well, he seems to have taught you well.” Father says. “Though I will have to talk to him about disobeying his father.”

Sansa winces. She will have to warn Jon about that. “Did you ever directly forbid him for teaching us?”

“It was heavily implied.” Father says, amused.

Sansa starts in surprise. Jon had spoken to Father about training Arya and herself? That was news to Sansa. Jon had kept on training them until he left for the North, so he must have truly disobeyed Father. A rush of fondness for her Jon floods Sansa, and she smiles down at her feet. “You spoke to him about it?”

“Jon came to me to discuss training Arya.” Father says. “Some months before we left for the Wall.”

“He had been teaching us for months then.” Sansa reveals, with a smile.

Father laughs. “I should have guessed. He spoke so confidently about Arya’s theoretical skills. He said she would make a great warrior.” Sansa’s smile falls. Father makes a sharp sound. “Arya was a great warrior?”

“She, uh,” Sansa thinks for the true words to describe what the war had left of her little sister, “Arya was a great assassin. She was a great warrior by extension, but...”

“Assassin?” Father asks. He looks at her in horror. “Assassin?”

Sansa sighed. She had not told him this on purpose, just as she had not told him of Bran’s unknown fate. “From what she told us, she got trained by the Faceless Men in Bravos before returning home. She never told us her entire story, but from what I could gather it was just as unpleasant as everything else I have told you until now.”

Father stays silent. There is still a great expression of horror on his face, but they walk towards their rooms in silence.

“I can understand your urge to protect me, Sansa.” Father says as they reach their rooms. “But you must tell me everything.”

Before she can say anything, he turns away and walks back down the way they came. Sansa stares after him and sighs. She hates this. She hates arguing with Father, especially since she does not feel as though she has done anything wrong in truth. Shaking her head she enters the rooms.

  


*

  


The breakfast is opulent. There is food from every corner of Westeros stacked on their table and Sansa looks over the display in awe. She had only asked a maid to gather a fine breakfast, but this is almost too much. It is too much.

She cannot think more of it as there is a small knock on the door. Dorris steps in and announces: “The Princess Myrcella and her companion Rosamund Lannister and sworn guard Ser Arys Oakheart.”

Sansa turns to the door with a smile. “Myrcella! I am so glad you were able to come.”

Myrcella smiles, a shy and sweet one. One day, Sansa hopes Myrcella will no longer be shy in her company. “Thank you for the invitation, Sansa.”

“Of course, my dear. We haven’t been able to speak properly in almost a week now.” Sansa ushers Myrcella towards the table and chuckles at Myrcella’s surprised expression. “I am afraid the maid I asked for food rather thought I would be hosting several hundred ladies.”

“We shall do our best.” Myrcella says, with a small smile.

“We shall.” Sansa agrees.

Arya comes out of the room then. “Princess Myrcella.” She greets.

“Lady Arya.” Myrcella curtsies.

The two are still shy around each other, Sansa knows, and she ushers them both to the table. Their companions are not in the room, only Arya, Sansa and Myrcella. Sansa wants the two to bond, especially if Father will make good on his promise to bring Myrcella to the North.

All Sansa wants is to know Myrcella safe. The girl is not responsible for the horrid nature of her parents, grandfather or brother.

  


“ _What of Princess Myrcella, your grace?” Sansa asks._

_The Queen, new and grand and terrifying, smiles. She looks like her dragons, larger than life as she towers over Sansa from her throne. “Myrcella Waters died.”_

_Sansa looks up at the Queen as a rush of misplaced grief floods her. “She was a sweet girl.” Had the Queen killed her? Burnt her as she had Jaime Lannister?_

“ _She was a Usurper.” The Queen says, sharply._

_Sansa casts her eyes away. “Of course, your grace.”_

“ _There will not be a single Lannister left on the face of this earth when I am through with them.” The Queen says. “You of all people should empathize, Lady Stark. Or are the tales of the demise of Houses Frey and Bolton greatly exaggerated?”_

_Sansa exhales. “They are not.” She traces the scar on her arm. But they had not killed any child younger than 10, none of the innocents who had done nothing to warrant death. She had left many of Walder Frey’s grandchildren live. It was Mercy._

  


Sansa watches as Myrcella smiles shyly at Arya’s words. She had been horrified when she learned of Myrcella’s death. She had been much more horrified when she learned how poor Myrcella had died.

They break their fast together and Sansa keeps back as Arya and Myrcella talk together. She can tell Myrcella does not really understand Arya – the fighting and wearing trousers – and Arya does not truly understand Myrcella either, but they seem to like each other well enough nevertheless.

“Pardon me for a moment.” Sansa asks of both of them when they have eaten as much as they can manage. She leaves them, going back into her sleeping chambers, where her ladies are enjoying their own breakfast.

Jeyne is the first to look up when she enters. “Lady Sansa! Has the Princess left?” She asks. There is a slight note of jealousy in her voice, as there always is when she speaks of Myrcella.

“Ah no, not yet.” Sansa moves towards the chest by the bed. “I realized I had forgotten Myrcella’s gift.”

There is a brief flash of sourness on Jeyne’s face that she manages to hide quickly. “Call for us if you need anything.”

“Of course, Jeyne.” Sansa promises as she leaves her ladies again.

Sansa returns to the table. “Myrcella, I got you a gift.” She hands Myrcella the newly finished embroidered handkerchief. “I would have liked to make you a dress, but I was a little pressed for time.”

Myrcella stares down at the embroidered stag in a meadow of wildflowers and a smile spreads over her face. “Thank you, Lady Sansa.” She says shyly.

“It is my pleasure, princess.” Sansa smiles.

Myrcella runs a finger over the stitches. “Your embroidery is so pretty. Will you help me with mine?”

“Sansa is very skilled.” Arya says.

Sansa looks over at her sister, sharply. There is just a hint of that old bitterness in her tone. Sansa had hoped Arya had gotten past that. Sansa had done her very best to make clear to Arya that they were each skilled at very different skill sets and there was no use for jealousy.

“She truly is.” Myrcella agrees, not hearing the bite to Arya’s words.

“I can of course help you, Princess.” Sansa promises.

“Thank you.” Myrcella looks pensive. “I think I would like to make Tommen a belt with kittens.”

“I am certain Prince Tommen would be very happy with that indeed.” Sansa agrees. “And mayhaps a handkerchief with a lion for your mother?”

“Yes.” Myrcella smiles widely and Sansa smiles back at her when the door to the chamber suddenly flings open with a loud bang. As they all turn towards the door, Sansa’s feels her stomach drop.

The King, irate and large, stands in the door with a furious expression on his face. “YOU!” He shouts, storming into the room. He grabs Myrcella by the arm and Sansa is up in an instant as Myrcella cries out in pain.

“Father!” Myrcella cries out.

At that the King flings her to the ground, with an ugly expression on his face. “I am not.” He snarls. “Ask your whore of a mother.”

Sansa gasps, as many others in the room, but she also cries out when she sees Arya moving in between Myrcella and the King, brandishing a small knife as a weapon. “Arya, no.”

“Get away from that little bastard.” The King snarls, evidently still enough present of mind not to hurt the daughter of his oldest friend.

Arya looks afraid, but she does not move away. “Not Myrcella.” She says, her voice shaking.

“Why you little-”

“Step away from my daughter, Robert.”

Sansa nearly cries with relief as Father and Lord Arryn step into the room, followed by several of Father’s men. Father’s face is thunderous and the King’s attention is thankfully of Arya and Myrcella for a moment.

Sansa is by Myrcella’s side immediately. Myrcella is weeping, clutching her arm to her chest. “Myrcella, can you stand?” Sansa whispers, careful not to catch the King’s attention again.

Myrcella shakes her head and Sansa nods. She looks around the room. Father, the King and Lord Arryn are locked in a bitter fight by the looks of it. Arya and Sansa’s ladies, having heard the commotion, stand in a half circle around Sansa and Myrcella, shielding the two from view.

“I must?” The King shouts then. “Truly Jon? My fucking wife has been fucking some other man for fucking years and you fucking knew? How long have you known, Jon?”

Myrcella whimpers and Sansa runs a gentle hand over her friends face. “I am sorry, Myrcella.”

“What is he talking about?” Myrcella asks.

“I WILL HAVE THAT WHORE HANGED!” The King roars.

Sansa winces, just wishing the King could have this meltdown somewhere else. Myrcella holds Sansa’s hand even tighter and hides her face in Sansa’s shoulder. Sansa runs a hand over Myrcella’s hands and catches Jeyne’s eye.

Jeyne kneels down immediately and Sansa whispers. “Leave. Subtly. With Wylla and Alys and learn all you can.”

“My lady, I will not leave you.” Jeyne whispers, wide eyed and frightened.

“You must. Please, Jeyne. We will meet at the Godswood at sundown.” Sansa smiles tightly at her friend. “And take Arya with you.”

Jeyne times their departure perfect. The four thin ladies slip out of the door while the King is snarling at Father and Lord Arryn. Myrcella whimpers as their shield leaves, but Jenny and Thyra quickly stand in the King’s line of sight again and Sansa shushes the girl.

Where in the name of the Gods is Ser Oakheart, Sansa wonders. If the Princess’ sworn shield was not available, what use was he? Sansa herself was angry at herself for sending Dorris away, but how could she have ever thought something like this would happen.

“That girl is no blood of mine!” The King shouts. “Why should I not have her hanged?”

“Hanged?” Father says, incredulously. “Robert, that girl is your daughter. You have raised her for years. It is not her fault. None of it is.”

“Cersei-” The King hisses.

“Myrcella is not Cersei.” Father interrupts him. “This is not her fault.”

Where is Cersei anyways, Sansa wonders. If the King was already so irate that he went after Myrcella, then Cersei … Sansa frowns. Either Cersei was already dead or the King was not able to get his hands on the Queen. The latter was more likely, she thinks, but that would mean Cersei had left the city somehow.

Myrcella sniffles against Sansa’s chest. “Why is Father so angry?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa lies. “I am sure he will calm down soon.”

“He is always so angry.” Myrcella whispers. “Why is he always so angry?”

“I do not know.” Sansa repeats. “I am sure he will calm down soon.”

Myrcella does not look convinced. Sansa sympathizes with that. She looks over to where the King speaks with Father and Lord Arryn. He look marginally calmer, at least he isn’t staring at Myrcella like a wild bull any longer.

Father catches Sansa’s eye and he makes a jerk with his head towards the door. “Leave.” He mouths.

Sansa nods, hiding Myrcella against her body and they make a dash for the door. Myrcella, thankfully, has the sense to keep it together until they have put some distance between the King and themselves. When they have, Myrcella starts sobbing – loud and heartbreaking sobs that wreck through her body. Jenny, Thyra and Sansa look at each other sadly, not knowing how to help the girl.

“By the Gods, Lady Sansa, what was that?” Jenny whispers. “The King was going to kill her.”

Sansa grimaces, with a look at Myrcella. “Later.” She whispers to Jenny and Thyra, not wanting Myrcella to hear all the sordid details.

“You know?” Myrcella asks, staring at Sansa. Well, she has obviously heard it nevertheless. “Sansa?”

“It is not pretty, my lady. Do you really wish to know?” Sansa asks. It is Myrcella’s decision, Sansa thinks. Sansa herself hates being treated as a child, she does not to do the same to her friends. “I will tell you if you wish.”

“Yes please.” Myrcella says, manners not failing even now.

Sansa sighs. “My father told me this.” She lies. “Your father is not his grace, the King.”

Myrcella’s face is the picture of shock. “What-”

“Queen Cersei has been lying about your parentage for years and Lord Arryn found out about it nearly a year ago. He and my father were preparing for, um,” Sansa looks at the Princess and grimaces, “they were trying to find ways to disinherit you and your brothers and bring Queen Cersei down without starting a war.” Myrcella starts crying anew and Sansa exchanges a panicked look with both her ladies. Jenny and Thyra both seem at a loss, their own faces frozen with shock “Myrcella, I am sorry.”

“Who?” Myrcella sobs. Sansa frowns. Who what? “Who is my father?”

Oh. Yes, Sansa should have thought Myrcella would want to know her parentage. “Oh, um,” Sansa grimaces, “as far as Lord Arryn could tell, it is, um, Jaime Lannister.”

There is an audible gasp from either Thyra or Jenny, Sansa cannot tell as she is watching Myrcella’s reaction carefully. Myrcella’s lower lip wobbles and she bites down on it. “My uncle?”

“I am sorry, Myrcella.” Sansa says.

“Where is my mother?” Myrcella asks, not even looking at Sansa.

“I do not know.”

“Bring me to her chambers.” Myrcella says firmly. She looks up then, and a brief flash of discomfort crosses her face. She adds, meekly: “If you wish to aid me any further, my lady.”

Sansa smiles as gently as she can. “Of course I do, Princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yippee yi yeah!


	18. King's Landing - 299, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Revelations And Wedding.

Sansa peers around the corner and eyes the Baratheon men guarding the Queen’s chambers with apprehension. The four men were heavily armed and armored, and they stand before the open chamber door with impassive faces.

“There are 4 guards.” Sansa whispers as she turns back to her ladies and Myrcella. “I do not think you should approach them, Myrcella.”

Myrcella’s lower lip wobbles and she petulantly asks: “Why not?”

“They are not Lannister men. Mayhaps they are to take you on sight.”

Myrcella pales and takes a step back. Her hands shake as she fists the fabric of her dress.

“I will go.” Sansa says. “Me and Jenny, and we will ask for an audience with the queen. Thyra, stay with Myrcella and if there is any trouble take her to the Godswood.”

Myrcella seems very unhappy, but she nods in assent of Sansa’s plan. Sansa steels herself, raising her shoulders and painting an innocent and shy smile on her face. She looks over at Jenny, who nods at her, and they stride along the corridor and around the corner.

One guard is alert immediately as he spots them approaching. “Halt!” He calls out. “What are you doing here?”

Sansa blinks. “Pardon me?” She asks, with faux-confusion. “I wish to have an audience with the Queen, good ser.”

The man frown at her. “You are Lord Stark’s daughter are you not?”

“I am, ser. Sansa Stark.” Sansa smiles. “Is the Queen still in her chambers?”

Please let us in, Sansa thinks, or at least tell us something. She fears the worst. If there are armed guards before Cersei’s chambers … the Queen was probably already in the Dungeon.

“No.” The man says bluntly. “She is not.”

Sansa frowns. “But she sent for me, for breakfast?” Her smile waves as she looks at the guard. “Has there been a change of plans?”

“Queen Cersei is currently indisposed.” The man says. “Please go back to your chambers. Your father will certainly be looking for you.”

“Of course, good ser.” Sansa says with a smile, cursing the man’s tight-lipped loyalty to the King. “Where is Queen Cersei’s usual guard?”

“Currently indisposed.” The man says again.

Sansa sighs. There is nothing to get out of him. She sinks into a low curtsy, thanks him for his help and leaves again. Disappointment rises in her and she sees that disappointment mirrored in Myrcella’s face when she arrives back at their hiding place. The Princess had evidently heard everything.

“Let’s go to the Godswood. We might learn mor-”

Sansa is unable to finish as Jenny pushes her and Myrcella further into the small enclave and tells them to keep quiet. It is not a moment too soon before Sansa can hear the loud footsteps echoing up the hallway.

“Any trouble, Weston?” A vaguely familiar voice asks.

“No, my lord.” the same guard Sansa had spoken to says immediately.

“Good.” Sansa recognizes the voice then. It is Renly Baratheon, the King’s brother. “I’ll be back by high noon. Make sure no one gets in before the Lord Hand and I can gather any clues regarding her disappearance.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Sansa looks up in distress. Cersei’s disappearance. What did that mean? Had Cersei left or was it the Baratheon’s cover for her arrest?

Sansa holds her breath as Renly Baratheon’s steps approach their little hiding place. She prays to all Gods who will hear their prayers that he does not spot them. Someone must have answered them as he breezes past them. Sansa catches a brief glimpse of his frowning face when he passes, and she suddenly knows that this has not gone their way.

 

*

 

Joffrey’s chambers are similarly guarded, and Sansa does not even attempt to get entry. Myrcella grows paler and paler with each moment and they finally make their way to Tommen’s chambers.

There, for once, the men guarding the door are well known to Sansa. Her father’s men snap to attention when she approaches.

“Lady Sansa.” Rudik says, looking to the side uncomfortably. “You should not be here.”

“Is Prince Tommen inside?” Sansa asks, brushing away his concern.

Rudik nods reluctantly. “Aye, my lady. Lord Stark told us to keep care of the boy and ensure no one takes him.”

Take him, Sansa thinks horrified, who would take Tommen? Then, in a flash, she is reminded of the King’s anger towards Myrcella and she knows whom Rudik and the others are guarding Tommen against. Her father is a good man, Sansa thinks not for the first time.

“Good.” Sansa says honestly. “Rudik what happened?”

Rudik looks at her for a brief moment. “You’d better ask Lord Stark that, my lady.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Please, Rudik. We went by the Queen and Prince Joffrey’s chambers. They are both heavily guarded. Has the Queen been arrested for something?”

Rudik looks uncomfortable. “I do not – Please ask your Lord Father, my lady.”

“Oh, for the sake of Gods, Rudik.” Jon Tarron asks from beside him. “Just tell Lady Sansa.”

Rudik fixes Tarron with a pointed look. “Lord Stark told us not to tell anyone.”

“Lady Sansa is not anyone, Rudik.” Tarron rolls his eyes. Sansa smiles at him, happy that some of her work to get to know the men on their journey had born some fruit at least. Tarron turns to her. “That Lannister woman left King’s Landing during the night with her son.”

Sansa’s heart sinks. So, her instincts had not been wrong. Cersei was no longer in King’s Landing. Someone must have told her about the investigation of Lord Arryn and let her leave the city with Joffrey.

Gods.

Sansa clasps her hands to her mouth, in an effort to keep the churning of her stomach to a minimum. She looks back at where she had left Myrcella with her ladies and she takes a couple of deep breathes. Rudik and Tarron both look at her with concern as she turns back to them. “I am in the company of Princess Myrcella.” She tells them solemnly. “Would you take her inside to her brother and guard them both?”

“My lady?” Rudik asks.

“I would see them both safe and my lord father and I trust you all implicitly.” Sansa tells them.

A small smile passes over Rudik’s face before the impassive face of a guard is back in place. “Of course, my lady. You can trust us.”

“I know.” Sansa smiles. She turns back and walks back to her ladies and Myrcella.

They all watch her approach and Thyra is the first to break the silence. “We did not hear. Is Tommen there?”

“Come along, Myrcella.” Sansa takes Myrcella by the hand gently and leads her to her brother’s chamber. Sansa introduces both guards as they pass. Rudik and Tarron both nod, an impassive face on their faces.

Myrcella turns back to look back at them with wide eyes. “Sansa?”

“They will guard you and Tommen here until my father or I pick you up.” Sansa tells Myrcella. She puts a hand between Myrcella’s shoulders and Myrcella bows her head as they walk.

 

++

 

The Godswood is entirely silent as Sansa and Thyra wait for the others to arrive. Sansa looks around the Godswood and sinks into a kneel beside the great oak. She does not even know if the Gods can hear her if she does not pray before a weirwood tree, but she will try nevertheless.

_Don’t let this be the start of the war,_ she prays. _I tried all I could to stop this, I swear it. Please don’t let this all happen again. We need all the men we can get to fight against the Others, we cannot spare another war. Please._

“SANSA!” Arya runs into view and Sansa stands up as quickly as she can, to catch Arya who runs into her arms.

“How are you?” Sansa asks after she looks Arya over and over trying to see any kind of injury on her person.

Arya shrugs. “Fine, I guess.” She bites at her lip. “You? Myrcella?”

Sansa shakes her head and sighs.  “I am well. Myrcella is not, but I do not expect her to be.”

Arya nods. “We could not.” She frowns. “Where is Myrcella?”

“In Tommen’s chambers in the castle. Father’s men are guarding them.” Sansa explains. “Did you-?” She trails off. “What did you learn?”

Arya scratches at her nose. “Not much. Jeyne left to speak with the servants of the Queen, but all I could tell is that she left late last night.”

Sansa sighs and nods. “We heard the same. The Queen left with Prince Joffrey.” Arya makes a face of great disgust. Sansa can empathize. “Do you know when?

Arya shrugs. “No idea.”

“I am glad you are safe.” Sansa says honestly. “That was a foolish thing you did, stepping before the King. Foolish but brave.”

Arya blushes. “He was going to hurt Myrcella.” She says simply.

Sansa smiles. “I am proud of you.”

Arya looks away, though more in embarrassment than anything else Sansa thinks. Arya crosses her arms and looks down. “Sansa...” She stops short and looks at Sansa for a split second before looking away again. “Sansa what do you know?”

Sansa sighs, looking away from Arya. “Arya … I don’t-”

“Don’t lie to me!” Arya interrupts her sharply. “I know that something happened to you, you cannot hide that from me and I suppose Father knows because he looks at you sometimes like you break his heart every moment you exist. I don’t know why you don’t trust me enough to tell me, but I respected that you didn’t because I could tell it hurt you to think about it. But now? Sansa now the Queen has disappeared, and you always told me not to trust her long before we came south, so that means that you know something, or knew something long before today.”

“Arya-”

“NO!” Arya says sharply. “Don’t- You don’t need to tell me everything right now, I would not ask that of you, but please tell me something!”

The words are loud in the silence of the Godswood and the other ladies look over at them with startled expressions. Arya casts her face down in shame, but Sansa looks at them all and their faces. She trusts them all, some perhaps less than others, but she does trust them.

“I know I have not been particularly forthcoming with any of you.” Sansa announces. In an instant all their attentions are on her. “And I still cannot tell you all everything, but I can tell you some of it.”

Jeyne approaches them. “What do you mean you cannot tell us everything?”

“I cannot, because it is not my story to tell.” Sansa admits. And also, because there is too much she never wants any of them to know, she thinks privately. “But I will tell you some of it.”

They gather around her and Sansa sighs, looking them each in the face. “I do not where to start.”

“How about the start?” Thyra offers with a small, teasing grin.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Yes, Thyra. Thank you.” She says, letting the sarcasm flow freely. “I mean, I do not know where the start is.” She exhales sharply and starts: “By my own count, I was born nearly 20 name days ago.”

She observes their reaction. Thyra and Jenny only frown, no outward reaction, but Jeyne and Arya flinch back visibly. Alys and Wylla makes small noises of shock and surprise.

“You are 12, Sansa.” Arya argues.

Sansa smiles. “I am. In a fashion.”

“What does that mean?” Wylla asks. Her voice is quiet, and she does not look Sansa in the eyes.

“When I died, I was close to my 18th name day. I woke up here, a few days after my 11th name day.” Sansa explains. None of them look particularly convinced. “It was a great shock then, as I suppose it has to be, considering I was back home at Winterfell with my family.”

“Sansa what are you talking about?” Arya protests. She stands and Sansa flinches at her angry expression. “You don’t have to lie to me!”

“Arya.” Sansa says softly. “I swear to the Old Gods I am not lying to you.” She looks in all their faces. “I am not lying to any of you.”

Only Thyra does not look skeptical. “I think I have heard of something like this before.” Thyra says. Her voice is gentle and quiet. “Though it has not been seen in several centuries. The Gods sometimes send people back to fix a time where too much has gone wrong for things to be right again.”

That is what Old Nan had said as well, once upon a time. Sansa watches Thyra as the other woman brushes her hand over the ground of the Godswood.

“What tales do you know?” Sansa asks.

Thyra looks up and smiles at her. “There are two tales. One of a wise king during the Long Night, and a young strapping Stark lad who returned to the time before the dragons and convinced his father to kneel before the dragon king.”

“Torrhen Stark.” Jenny says, softly.

“His son. Rickard.” Thyra corrects gently.

Sansa looks down and frowns. If there were only two other tales of things happening as they had happened to her, there must be a reason for the Gods to have done so. If Torrhen had not knelt, Sansa thinks, the North would have been burned to ashes. But why would the Gods decide to save the North from the dragons, when they had let countless wars happen since then, and before then? What reason would the Gods have for saving the North when the dragons invaded?

“What happened in your first life, Sansa?” Thyra asks. Her eyes are sharp as they fix on Sansa’s face. “What was so horrible?”

“There was a war.” Sansa says simply. “And then there was a war from beyond the wall.”

 “And there were no more Starks in Winterfell?” Thyra asks. Sansa looks up in surprise. Thyra must read the confusion in Sansa’s expression as she adds: “All things the tales I know have in common is that there were no more Starks in Winterfell.”

“There weren’t for a long time, but when it happened there were.” She shakes her head. “No, I am wrong. There weren’t. We had just stepped out of the castle to flee south.”

Arya makes a noise of disappointment.

Thyra nods sagely. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

Sansa smiles. Those were just as much the Starks words as “Winter is coming” was, but she had never actually thought they were meant literally. “So those are literal.”

“Very.” Thyra says. “Why do you think the Skagossons are still part of the North.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow at her. “Because you are our bannermen.”

Thyra chuckles. “No Stark has seen us as their bannermen in centuries.”

“That is not true.” Sansa sighs. “We know very well that you are our bannermen, we just don’t think you do.”

“Well, we- “

“Okay STOP!” Jeyne interrupts her. Jeyne’s beautiful brown eyes are wide and horrified as she looks at Sansa. “So, you are not my Sansa?”

That hurts, Sansa realizes. “I am your Sansa.” She says. “I am just a little older.”

Jeyne bites at her lower lip. “I thought you were just grown.”

“That I am too.”

“Father knows?” Arya says suddenly. Sansa looks back at her little sister, who is folded in on herself. “Is that why he is so angry with you?”

“He does know yes, but that is not why is angry.” Sansa leans forward to place a hand on Arya’s knee and takes it back immediately when Arya flinches heavily. “Father and I got in a fight about his tendency to forget that bad things can happen in this world.”

“Like happened to you.” Arya does not phrase it as a question.

Sansa exhales, not knowing what to say. She truly does not want to tell them what happened to her. She does not want them to think any less of so many people who had hurt her once upon a time but probably were not bad people in truth. “Yes.” She says finally. “But I have changed that.”

“You did?” Thyra asks. “What did you change?”

“Well, this day the last time we were long in the midst of a war that no one would ever win.” Sansa says wryly. “I did change that.” Though not for much longer, she thinks unhappily. Cersei and Joffrey would never allow Robert’s throne to pass to anyone but Joff. And that, inevitably, meant war. Hopelessly a war less devastating that the war of the 5 kings, but a war would devastate no matter how bad.

“Not for much longer.” Jenny says, echoing Sansa’s thoughts. At the startled expressions on the others faces, they had not thought of it yet. “Am I right, Sansa?”

“Mayhaps.” Sansa nods. “But mayhaps not, but war will come no matter what.”

“The Others?” Jenny asks. “Right? That is war from the north?”

Sansa’s ladies are too clever for their own good. “Yes.” Sansa lets herself shrug in a hopeless gesture she hopes the others cannot read so well. By the expression on Alys’ face she does not succeed. “But I changed that too. The wildlings were let through the wall much later in my,” the words fail her then.

“Your other life.” Thyra says softly.

“I dislike that phrase very much.” Sansa admits. “This is my life, just as the other was. This, perhaps, is a second chance, but it does not feel like another life.”

“Then we’ll call it your first chance.” Jeyne says, sweetly.

Sansa smiles at her friend. The phrase does not make her feel any better in truth, as it only implies she did something wrong the first time – which she had – but it is better than first life.

 

 

++

 

The throne room is filled with every nobleman and noblewoman in the city. The Hand had called for them all to assemble and the level of apprehension in the room is tangible.

Sansa sits beside Arya and Bran, holding a hand of each. Bran seems confused, not knowing what the issue is, but Arya looks as tense as Sansa feels. Father is not by their side, standing by Lord Arryn’s side. The two men are talking lowly, both appearing solemn and sad.

It does not take much longer before the doors to the hall are opened and the King strides through them, dressed in his best attire with a heavy crown on his head. In a strange way, Sansa can fathom how attractive he might have been in his youth as she watches him stride past them with angry, quick steps. He sits on the throne gingerly and faces the room as a whole.

“King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” The herald announces. The whole room is still on their feet, head bowed in respect.

“Sit.” The King bellows.

Sansa almost falls to her seat, pulling Bran down with her.

“I have horrible news. Cersei Lannister has been proven a fraud. Her vile nature and evil ways have been discovered, along with the vile imposter Joffrey Waters who has never been and never will be my son.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd and Bran squeezes her hand tightly. Sansa looks around. Most nobles assembled seem horrified, hands clasped over mouths and everywhere people are talking through their shock.

“Henceforth, the children of Cersei Lannister, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen, formerly known as Prince and Princess to the realm will be known as Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen Waters.” The King announces. Sansa watches Father’s carefully blank expression. “The vile traitors Cersei Lannister, Joffrey Waters and Jaime Lannister are to be captured and brought to the Red Keep for execution. However, the younger children I grant clemency. Tommen Waters will leave for the Wall in the North, and the girl will be taken in by the gracious Lord Eddard Stark.”

Arya squeezes Sansa’s hand tightly. “Myrcella is coming to Winterfell?”

“I-“ Sansa shrugs. “It appears so.”

“Good.” Arya says, viciously.

Sansa smiles, but suppresses that smile as she turns her attention back to the King.

“I am no longer married in the eyes of the Gods and have no sons of mine. My heir will henceforth be the great and honorable Lord Stannis Baratheon until I am granted a son of mine own.” The King says. He stands, prompting everyone else to do the same and then strides back out of the hall.

It stays quiet for a long moment, before exploding into sound. Sansa breathes out heavily and rushes forward towards her father, who waits and watches her. He gathers her into a hug and holds her close for two, three heartbeats.

“We should all go home.” Sansa tells him, quietly, aware of the possibility of people listening. “I want to go home.”

Father sighs and runs a thumb over Sansa’s cheekbone. “I cannot leave now, darling. Jon and Robert need me here.”

“No, they don’t.” Sansa says, petulantly. “Mama needs you. Winterfell needs you.”

He smiles sadly. “And they need the realm to be okay. So, I’ll stay here.”

Sansa shakes her head and changes the subject. “Will Tommen be sent to the wall now?”

“Not this instance. It has been decided his travels north can wait until either a brother comes south, or a northern party goes north again.” Father explains. “And Myrcella will stay in your retinue for now. She’ll be your lady and as long as neither does anything stupid, Robert has promised they will not be harmed.”

“So, they are essentially prisoners.” Sansa says. Myrcella will take on her own role in Sansa’s past life – or how had Jeyne called it? First chance?

“Yes.” Father admits easily. “But they will not be harmed.”

Sansa looks away, lips twisting. As long as they are within the King’s reach, anything could still harm Myrcella and Tommen. They will need to go north as soon as possible.

 

++

 

The weeks following the King’s announcement are tense. Poor Tommen spends most of his days in the confines of his chamber, lonely but unharmed. He is joined sometimes by his uncle, who had been able to escape the King’s wrath by saying that he hated his sister as much as the king did, but most of his time Tommen spent alone in a room.

Sansa keeps Myrcella out of sight as best as she can as well, after witnessing a noblewoman hurling abuse at Myrcella, who had burst into tears at the words. Through her sweet and gentle nature, Myrcella was able to submit to being Sansa’s lady rather than a Princess of the realm, but they found themselves in situations sometimes when Myrcella expected someone to treat her as a princess and then be bitterly disappointed and ashamed.

Meanwhile, Sansa and Father had made plans for Sansa, Arya and Bran to leave for the north again. After the King had made a jest about marrying Sansa, to finally bind the Stark and Baratheon houses in truth, Father had finally taken Sansa up on her request to be sent back home. A ship had been chartered that would take them all to White Harbor, where they would be placed in Wylla’s grandfather’s gentle care. They were set to leave not a week after the royal wedding.

The arrival of Margaery and her Tyrell retinue was awaiting with bated breath as the date set for the wedding was creeping closer with every day as well. Sansa did not know what to make of the wedding. Everything was changing so heavily from her first chance and if this continued, Sansa’s knowledge of the possible future would be no more help to them.

So, when Margaery does arrive, Sansa does her best to avoid her former friend. She has conversations with the girl at her welcoming feast but finds excuses as to why she cannot meet the Tyrells in the gardens for tea. Sansa suspects Margaery believes her to be jealous, but Sansa would rather have Margaery think that for a few weeks.

When the wedding does arrive, it is a beautiful day. Sansa bathes, gets out the fine dress Father had expressly ordered for this occasion, and gets dressed before the watchful eyes of her ladies. They will all wear the same dove gray dress with a bow in the colors of their houses around their waists, but Sansa and Arya are dressed in Stark finery.

Sansa’s dress is gorgeous, the underdress made of brilliant white silk with just a shiver of the palest blue to imitate ice. The overdress is of a shimmering pale gray fabric and embroidered with dozens of large and fierce direwolves in a thread just a shade darker than the fabric itself. The effect was stunning, Sansa admitted. Father did have a good sense of fashion and what a statement it could set. Though to be honest, Sansa did not exactly know what Father wanted to say with her statement dress.

Arya’s dress was not less of a statement, but more suited to Arya’s style. Her whole dress was made of the white-blue icy fabric and the contrast against Arya’s darker skin and dark hair was stunning. It would have never had the same effect on Sansa’s pale skin.

They arrive in the Sept by Father’s side, and with Bran on their heels. Father’s clothes are simpler than her and Arya’s gowns, but no less Stark-inspired. The Sept itself is filled already, with noblemen and women from the entire realm. Sansa waves at Uncle Edmure, who had arrived just a few days ago, and she can spot the large Tyrell retinue standing by the front of the Sept. Stannis and Renly Baratheon are in attendance as well, and so is Oberyn Martell and his niece Arianne Martell.

“Come.” Father beckons them forward and guides them to a seat in the front, on the opposite side of the Sept as the Tyrell retinue and by Jon Arryn’s side.

“Ah, Ned. Finally.” Jon Arryn smiles as they approach, and he stands to bow to Sansa and Arya. They both sink into a responding curtsey and Sansa smiles prettily. “Tywin Lannister has sent a raven. He refuses to say if his daughter has reached Casterly Rock, but he does not want a war either.”

“He does not want his grandchildren killed.” Father says softly, sparing a glance to Sansa and Arya before he answers.

“Most likely not.” Jon Arryn agrees. “And the Westerlands do not have the men to take on the whole Kingdom.”

Sansa privately thinks that that is probably the more prudent reason why Tywin Lannister had not declared war on the King yet. Tywin had all the time in the world now to gather his troops and wait for the King’s death, to install his grandson on the throne. “Have Cersei and Joffrey been found?” She asks.

Jon Arryn looks at her sharply, then shakes his head. “There were sighting along the Gold Road, but our Gold Cloaks have not been able to find anyone.”

Sansa nods. 5 of the Lannister men Cersei had installed in King’s Landing had fled the city with them, so they were well guarded. Still, Sansa could scarcely imagine Cersei and Joffrey living on the road.

“Enough politics.” Father says, with a sigh. “Let us forget the Lannister, if just for today. We should enjoy the wedding and celebrate Robert’s happiness.”

Sansa does not think that the King or poor Margaery will be particularly happy, but she is willing to pretend she does think it, if only because she knows that she will be able to go home soon. While she does not think the Tyrells are any less hungry for power than the Lannisters were, Sansa can at least hope that any children Margaery may have will be proper Baratheons and that Margaery will raise them well. She trusts the Tyrells enough for that. Of course, they will probably all die when Daenerys inevitably comes to Westeros, but in case that does not happen, Sansa would rather have a Tyrell on the throne than a Lannister.

 

++

 

“Would you join me for a dance, Lady Stark.” Sansa looks up at Loras Tyrell standing before her with a pretty smile on his face. Once upon a time, she would have been deliriously happy at the question, but now she could only wonder which of his family had made him ask her.

“Of course, my lord.” She stands up, smoothing out her dress and takes his hand to follow him onto the dancefloor. The wedding feast is still going strong. Rather than Margaery’s wedding to Joffrey, this feast was more tailored to the King’s tastes. A lot of meat and ale was plated and rather than several plays being performed a dancing floor had been cleared. Even Margaery’s dress was tailored to suit Robert, less of the ostentatious roses that had adorned Marg’s dress once upon a time, and more of a formfitting silhouette that emphasized each of Margaery’s feminine wiles.

“Did you enjoy the ceremony, my lady?” Loras asks. “My sister was so happy today.”

“It was beautiful, my lord.” Sansa answers, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “I pray to the Gods that my own celebration of marriage will be that beautiful as well.”

“I am sure it will be.” Loras twirls her around in time to the music and Sansa feels the heavy skirt of her gown hit his legs. He does not wince, but it is a near thing. “I must say your gown is beautiful today, my lady.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She smiles. “My father had it made just for the wedding.”

“It is beautiful. You must tell me who the tailor is, so I can give their name to Margaery.” Loras says. “She said herself how beautiful the dress was.”

“Oh, that is so kind. Her dress was absolutely lovely as well.”

“Made by our grandmother.” Loras reveals quietly, like it is a grand secret. “The dress itself is the same dress my grandmother wore to her wedding with my grandfather.”

“Oh, that is a lovely idea!” Sansa says, not even having to pretend to be delighted. It truly was a nice idea, though all her own grandmothers were long dead. She had only ever known her father’s grandmother Arya when she was a little girl, remembering her warm laugh and jokes. But Gamma Arya had died a few months before Arya’s birth and Sansa could barely remember how she looked.

“I thought so as well.” Loras smiles and they fall silent as the song continues. Sansa does not know what to say to Loras. It doesn’t matter much in any way. Sansa will not be in King’s Landing, so she will not need to try and find any favor with the newly Queen or her family. As the dance ends, Sansa thinks of an easy way to stop Loras from another dance when a soft voice breaks the silence.

“May I cut in, Lord Tyrell?” Oberyn Martell stands beside them with a warm smile on his face. The smile has none of the cutting-edge Sansa remembers from his visit to King’s Landing in the other time, but then again Sansa had been terrified of the Martell Lord back then.

Loras shrugs, which is less gallant than Sansa expects of a Tyrell, and he bows to her and Lord Martell before disappearing.

“May I have this dance, Lady Sansa?” Oberyn Martell asks her then. At her nod, he takes her hand and pulls her in to the appropriate distance of a dance between two unwed nobles. “You look beautiful tonight, my lady.”

“Thank you, my lord.”  Sansa says. “Not as lovely as dear Lady Margaery, but no one could have looked as radiant as the bride today.”

Oberyn Martell laughs. “You might be right, my lady. When my sister married the Targaryen Prince, she outshone ever other woman in the Keep. Not even the Queen was as beautiful that day.”

“Princess Elia,” Sansa says softly, thinking about that tragic story, “I am sorry for your loss.”

If he is startled by her proclamation he does not show it but for the sharp way he looks at her. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. We all miss her very much.” His voice is angry as he says it.

Sansa nods. She would be angry as well if she had not had the opportunity to avenge her siblings’ death. But she had and with the revenge, the pain had not faded, but the knowledge that their killer had no longer won had been satisfactory indeed.

“Has your lord father told you much about my sister’s death?” Prince Oberyn asks, curiously. He looks over her shoulder, at the high table where Father sits beside Lord Arryn.

Sansa knows what he actually wants to know. How do the wolves spin the story of Lyanna and Rhaegar? “Not much, my lord, mostly that she was killed in the rebellion along with her children.” Sansa pauses and adds: “Women and children should never be casualty of the pointless war their men wage.”

“What a radical idea, Lady Sansa.” Prince Oberyn says, amusement tainting his voice. “Unfortunately, history has proved that women and children are the cruelest casualties of war.”

“Aye.” Sansa agrees. “As I said, my lord, I am sorry for your loss.”

He smiles at her, the tight smile of grief she knows very well, and Sansa allows herself to smile back. She understands him better than he will ever understand, but that is not a problem in this moment. She does not need him to understand her pain, because Sansa has found a second chance. It is unfair, she thinks suddenly, that she gets a way to save her own family, when so so many other men and women had lost their family and they would never get a second chance. Perhaps that was not what the Gods wanted when they sent her back, Sansa thinks. The thought sends a shiver down her spine, but the moment she thinks it, she also knows that it is not true. A Stark must always be in Winterfell. Winterfell would have to stand, strong and proud with a Stark in her walls, to survive the onslaught of the Others.

“What are you thinking of, my lady? You have the queerest expression on your face.” Prince Oberyn asks. He turns her slowly, in time to the music, and Sansa takes the time to smooth out the expression on her face.

“Oh, not a thing of importance, my lord.” Sansa simpers, smiling guilelessly and hoping her youth will have his attention focused elsewhere.

“Of course, my lady.” He agrees, though he fixes her with a curious look. “I must say, my lady, you seem older than I expected.”

Sansa’ smile doesn’t drop, but it is a near thing. “It is my height, my lord. It makes me appear older than I am.”

“How many name days have passed for you?”

“12, my lord.”

His eyebrows rise, and the comical look startles a laugh out of Sansa. “You appear much older than you are.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Sansa says. “I will take the statement as a compliment.”

He fixes her with a serious expression. “You are of an age of my daughter, so I will tell you what I say to her. Take care, my lady, that men do not expect of you to act older than your age.”

The audacity of the statement nearly takes Sansa’s breath away. It is not even proper of her own father to speak of such matters with her, let alone a strange lord she had just met. “I am not certain that is proper, my lord.” Her words echo her thoughts and she can hear the uncertainty in her own voice.

He nods. “It was not, but it is difficult for a pretty, clever girl in this city.” He looks around, directly at the King and Sansa tenses at the implication.

She wants to say something to assuage his worries, but in truth there is nothing to say. Robert Baratheon had been very close to asking for Sansa’s hand, if Jon Arryn had not talked him out of it. Sansa suspected Jon Arryn had known that Father could have or would have never said no to the King if asked directly. Mayhaps Prince Oberyn should issue the same warning to Margaery, who is but 3 years older than Sansa. Still a girl in truth. As they look at the King and his new Queen a shiver runs down Sansa’s back as the King kisses Margaery’s palm and she giggles prettily.

“Perhaps you are warning the wrong girl.” Sansa mutters, under her breath, and she startles when the Prince laughs out loud.

“Margaery Tyrell has enough people giving her words of wisdom, my lady.”

“But I do not?” Sansa asks, curiously.

He looks at her and shrugs. “I do not know, my lady. I do not know your lord father very well, but from what I heard of him and how your aunt acted some 20 years ago, I would wager not.”

He is not wrong, Sansa thinks. With how little Sansa had known in her past chance, life, turn, whatever she wanted to call it, and how Lyanna Stark had run away with the married Prince of the realm, Sansa could not deny that the Stark girls had been undereducated in the ways of the south. She does not respond to him and falls quiet as they continue to dance to the music.

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable, but she is nevertheless almost glad when he breaks it. “I did not mean any offense, my lady.”

“No offense was taken, my lord.” She says automatically.

He laughs. “If you are certain, my lady.”

“I am, my lord.”

 

+

 

Arya was asleep at the table, head rested on her arms and she was snoring softly. Sansa was feeling the length of the day as well, eyes heavy as she looked upon the enduring nobles on the dancing floor.

“Do you wish to go to bed?” Father asks as he looks over at the two of them. His voice sounds too amused in the instant and Sansa turns to glare at him, though she fears that it might not be as impressive as she thinks.

“I’ll take Arya up.” Sansa says, nevertheless. The King and Margaery have left for the bedding an hour past, and while the feast was still going strong, there was no need for Sansa to still be present.

She wakes Arya, laughing at her sister’s disgruntled expression. It takes some coaxing, but eventually Sansa and Arya walk through the hall towards the exit. Dorris and Arya’s guard Kole follow them, a few steps behind.

Sansa nearly falls when Margaery comes running at her from the hallway. The new Queen is wailing, dressed only in a pale shift and tears stream down her face as she clutches at Sansa’s shoulder, holding herself upright.

“DEAD!” She wails. “The king is dead!”

She collapses to the ground and Sansa has half a mind to follow her lead. Oh gods, Sansa thinks. Robert was dead? How could that be? Sansa stares at the Queen at her feet and does not know what to do. Her heart and mind race as she hears the commotion behind them. Sansa does not even dare to look around, not knowing if the guests had heard Margaery’s announcement.

“My lady.” Dorris says, putting a hand on Sansa’s back.

It startles Sansa into action. “Help!” She calls out and sinks down onto the floor beside Margaery. “My queen, where is the king?”

Margaery heaves a dry sob. “In the bed.” She sobs.

“What is going on here?” Sansa recognizes Stannis Baratheon’s voice rather quickly and she looks up at the stern man.

“As far I can tell-“ she searches for the words.

Margaery sobs again. “The King, he died.”

Lord Stannis pales rather dramatically and he sinks down onto his knees. “What happened, my queen?” He asks sharply of Margaery.

“I don’t know, my lord.” Margaery says, great sobs catching the last word. “He fell, and he fell atop of me and I couldn’t get out!”

Sansa winces at the image. Was it poison? Or something natural?

“What is going on, Stannis?” Father’s kind and comforting voice asks.

Stannis stands. “My brother has died.” He announces.

Sansa looks around, to watch Father’s reaction to the news, all the while still holding Margaery tight. Father’s face falls, grief passing over his features and Gods, Sansa hopes that this is not the start of the war, but that is a futile hope. This will be the start of a new war. It must be.

“Can someone get a Tyrell?” Sansa asks then. Margaery still shakes in Sansa’s arms and Sansa truly does not believe it to be an act. Even a Margaery Tyrell must feel shaken if a man had died while in bed with her. “Please.”

The men look ashamed as they take in Margaery’s poor form in Sansa’s arms. “Of course, my lady.” Lord Stannis says. He makes a complicated hand gesture and the man standing beside him leaves then.

Sansa is surprised the commotion has not drawn the entirety of the guests out yet. Margaery must not have been as loud as Sansa had believed.

“Dorris, Kole, go to the wedding chamber. Aid the Kingsguard in any way you can and do not leave the Kings body.” Father orders then, and Sansa watches as her guard leaves.

It is then that she remembers Arya. Her sister stands by the wall, wide eyed and with a terrified expression on her face. Sansa wants to reach out, but she also does not want to untangle herself from the new Queen.

“Oh, good Mother, Margaery!” Sansa hears a woman cry. Alerie Tyrell comes running up, falling to her knees beside Sansa and Margaery’s mother gathers her daughter into her arms, rocking her like a babe.

Sansa watches them for a moment, before looking back. A crowd has assembled now, looking at them with undisguised looks of pity and horror. “Perhaps Margaery should leave for the Tyrell chambers.” Sansa says softly.

Lady Tyrell looks up, and at Sansa with a shrewd look. “You are right, Lady Sansa. Thank you.”

Sansa nods at her and bites her lip as she looks back. She catches the eye of her uncle, who comes forward and gently raises her into a standing position. Sansa’s beautiful gown is ruined, the entire skirt filthy with the mud from the floor, but Sansa could not care less at the moment.

“Are you alright, Sansa?” Uncle Edmure asks, kindly. He holds her and guides her away from the Tyrells towards where Arya still stands. He looks back and asks in a whisper: “What happened?”

“The king is dead.” Sansa looks over to where Stannis Baratheon stands, shaken and in conversation with Father and Lord Arryn. “Long live the King.”

Uncle Edmure looks at the three as well and sighs. “Well Stannis cannot be a worse king than Robert was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in honor of the wc starting yesterday I am posting this now. this chapter was originally much longer, but the second part has been added to the next chapter so that you all do not have to wait another month for this chapter.   
> the next update will probably be even longer than my usual updates, bc i have a lot of things to do for uni and the world cup will take up A LOT of my time in the next month.   
> i hope you enjoyed this update x  
> -sanssstark


	19. King's Landing - 299, Pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of A Coronation And Farewells.

 

King Stannis stands tall above the crowd, dressed in a great deep black cloak with a golden stag and a simple golden circlet on his head as he holds a scepter high. “My brother was a King by the right conquer. I follow in his footsteps not as a warrior, but as the rightful heir to his throne. His death is great tragedy to us all.”

Stannis looks sour as he says it, and Sansa wonders if Father or Lord Arryn had asked him to use those words, but as she looks around she can see nobles nodding their head. They did like Robert, ignoring his faults for the entertainment of a King who allowed himself to spend lavish amounts on tourneys and other forms of entertainment.

“In honor of my great brother memory, his widow Margaery will henceforth be known as Queen until the moment of her death.” Stannis announces. “She is to expect the same respect as any Queen before her and after her.”

Those are kind concessions, Sansa thinks. Margaery had been Robert’s queen for less than 3 hours, but Sansa wonders if perhaps the Tyrells had asked Stannis for the honor.

“My own daughter, Shireen, will be my own heir and heir to the Iron Throne, until I am blessed with a son. Her children will follow her on the throne.”

Sansa does not mistake the whispers. Nobles wondering if a girl can rule a Kingdom. The last time the inheritance had been disputed between a man and a woman, it had nearly torn the Kingdom apart. Shireen Baratheon sits in the first row, back straight and looking at her father. She does not turn around at the whispers, or show any sign that she hears them, but Sansa cannot help but wonder how a 10-year-old could deal with such circumstances.

“Princess Shireen will also inherit my title as Lord of Dragonstone immediately and be entrusted with the care of island and castle.” Stannis looks across the room. “My brother Lord Renly will stay Lord of Storm’s End and stands to inherit the throne should my daughter not have any children.”

Sansa shivers. Renly Baratheon had left for Storm’s End the day after the wedding, not even staying in the Red Keep for his brother’s coronation. Sansa prays that Renly is not stupid enough to try and crown himself King. This time around Joffrey at least is not the King, so that motivation has perhaps escaped Renly, but Sansa does not know if the man’s ego is large enough to still crown himself King.

“Is there anything you wish to bring before me today?” Stannis asks the crowd.

A nobleman Sansa does not recognize stands, stepping forward with an apprehensive look on his face. “My King. My name is Benedict Roger. I am the Lord of Amberly in the rainwood. King Robert had promised my father the rights to a mine located just outside our lands. Both my father and the King died before we could finalize the deal.”

“And you want me to make a deal with you?” King Stannis asks. “Does not fall under the prevue of my brother as Lord of Storm’s End.”

“Lord Baratheon sent us to the King a year past as the lands where the mine are located belong to the Baratheon’s of King’s Landing, your grace.” Lord Roger states, calmly. From where Sansa sits, she can see his hands wringing behind his back.

“I will think on issue, Lord Rogers.” Stannis promises. “I cannot make a promise now before I acquaint myself with the issue. Return to me in a moon’s turn and I will have an answer for your then.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Lord Rogers bows deeply and then returns to his seat.

Margaery is, surprisingly, the next to stand and step before the King. “Your Grace.” Her voice is loud and clear and sweet. “I wish to ask your leave to go back to my home Highgarden, to grieve my King Husband in the arms of my family. I am sad every day, here where every corner reminds me of my love the King.”

“Queen Margaery, please stand.” Stannis’s voice does not show any modicum of warmth for his brother’s widow. “Of course, I will grant you leave to go home to your family.”

 Margaery curtseys. “I thank you, King Stannis. You have shown me much kindness in this trying and horrible time.”

Stannis only inclines his head and Margaery steps back again. A few more nobles step forward, asking for lands or favors, and finally it is Father who steps forward. Sansa sends him a startled look, not having known he would ask King Stannis for anything.

Father sinks to his knees before the King and clears his throat before speaking. “King Stannis. My children and I came south for a tourney that was cut very short when the former Queen Cersei Lannister was poisoned. We came to Winterfell to aid your brother and the hand Lord Arryn in the investigation into the poisoning. Since, the Lannister woman has been shown to be a fraud and the King died in such horrible circumstances. A short trip has turned into a long stay in the south. My wife misses her children, my children miss their mother and their siblings. I ask for the Kings leave for my children. They wish to return home to the North.”

“I grant it.” King Stannis says simply. “Will you leave us as well, Lord Stark?”

“IF my king will have me I will stay.”

“Your King would have you, my lord.” King Stannis says. “I would offer you the position as Master of Law on my Small Council.”

“I will accept gratefully and hold the position with the greatest responsibility I can give it.” Father replies immediately. Sansa knows Stannis offered Father the position a week past already, so this must be for the benefit of the court.

“Is there another thing you wish to ask of your King?” Stannis asks.

“Aye, your grace.” Father looks uncomfortable. “Not a year past, I rode up to the wall with a host of northmen to face the threat of Wildling assembling in the lands beyond the wall. Beyond the wall, we were attacked by creatures out of the tales of ages long past. The Others attacked our camp at night, killing over 400 of our men.

“In response, and remembering the tales of the Others and how they amass their numbers, I made the decision to speak with the wilding king Mance Raydar. Sending my son, Jon, to speak with an emissary of the free folk, we agreed on a place and time to meet. There I learned that the free folk were in fact not looking to attack the wall or my lands, but rather they were fleeing from certain death that awaited them in the lands further beyond the wall.” Father stops speaking for a moment. “There are thousands of years of strife and hatred between the two peoples from below and beyond the wall, but I hope that your grace understands the need for resettling the men beyond the wall.”

Though the news must have reached most in the south already, the noise that erupts at that pronouncement takes many moments to disappait. Sansa looks around in apprehension, at the anger in the faces of many lord. King Stannis looks at the crowd impassively, not showing any sign of emotion, and motions Father to continue.

“My son has brokered several agreements with both our bannermen and our new neighbors. I have a copy of the deal with me today and would ask your grace to ratify the agreement and send a copy of it to the Citadel. I acted in this case in accordance as my position as the Warden of the North. Your brother, the late king, placed much trust in me to do what was right for the north and the realm. I do believe my decision was the right one, but should your grace the King feel differently, I will bow to your judgement.” Father is still kneeling on the floor.

Sansa leans forward, waiting for the King to respond.

“Lord Stark. You have made a deal with the people the wall has protected this realm against for millennia. You have allowed the enemies of this realm to pass through the wall and settle on the lands of our realm without asking for the realm’s permission.” Sansa winces at the tone in the Kings voice. “Other men might call this treason, but I do not. I have read about the creatures known as the others. I have read the account of a great many men from the Night’s Watch, honorable men, who corroborate your story. The previous Lord Commander Mormont himself was killed by an attack by these creatures. While your actions were rash, they were necessary. I will ratify the agreement and send a copy to the citadel.”

“Your judgement is unpassed, your grace.” Father says, bowing his head.

“Is there another matter?”

Father hesitates for a moment. “I would ask the King if it were possible for the Citadel to send any texts mentioning the creatures we will soon wage a war against to Winterfell or Castle Black so that one might read all about our enemies.”

“It is done.” The King says. 

 

+

 

by the will of the old gods, eddard stark, the warden of the north and the lord of winterfell by grace of king robert baratheon the first, has entered into an agreement with the men beyond the wall, called wildlings by the men of the north and free folk by their own admission.

it is the will of the gods to protect all men, below or beyond the wall, from the death of winter and what horrors winter will bring. when the great wall was raised by bran the builder over 8000 years ago, a gathering of first men decided it was not their lot in life to be subjects to the gods willed ruler. they refused to kneel to the first stark king and moved their families north of the wall. for 8 millennia the men beyond the wall and men below the wall have been in constant conflict, if not in open war then in small scrimmages along the northern lands. during this time the men below the wall have forgotten that a larger threat looms in the lands beyond the wall. such was made clear to the lord of winterfell during his travels beyond the wall. there, he encountered the beings known as the others. 400 men of his company died, giving their life in the pursuit of knowledge. the others, known to the starks for 8000 years, returned during the last long summer and would certainly wreak havoc on the lands of the north and the rest of westeros, as they had done during the long night 8000 years ago. to stop this, the valiant lord eddard stark proposed a meeting with the self-proclaimed wildling king mance raydar. at this meeting, it was agreed that the men beyond the wall shall be allowed to pass the wall. as 8000 years of strife and war cannot be made forgotten in a day, a month, a year or even a generation, the following clauses were agreed upon to keep the peace:

  * the men from beyond the wall will be settled throughout the entire north
    * half of the men beyond the wall will remaining in the lands known as the gift,   gifted to the night’s watch by brandon stark and queen alysanne
      * the lord commander of the wall has freely given the lands to be inhabited by the free men from beyond the wall and such has been noted in the records of the citadel
    * half of the men beyond the wall will settle in the lands of the northern lords
  * no man from beyond the wall will be forced to kneel before any lord, but they will be subject to winterfell's justice
    * any man from beyond the wall, if they so choose, may take it upon themselves to kneel before a lord and be accepted as a north man by both the men below and beyond the wall
  * no child born to men from beyond the wall will be forced to kneel before any lord, but they will be subject to winterfell’s justice
    * all children born to men from beyond the wall and women below the wall will be considered men beyond the wall and will not be forced to kneel before any lord, but they may choose to do so
    * all children born to women from beyond the wall and men below the wall will be considered men below the wall and will be subject to the lord of the land
  * the settlement of the men beyond the wall may never exceed a number larger than 2000
    * the number of men in a settlement may not exceed 1000
    * the number of men in a settlement may exceed 1000 if children are born to families giving within the settlement, but the excess must be alerted to the stark appointed justice within the land
    * should a settlement exceed the allowed number of 2000, the settlement must be divided in two or more settlements
  * the murder of a man from beyond the wall will be punished with the same action as the murder of a man from below the wall
    * murder shall be defined as by northern law
    * death or exile to the wall, and a fine of 30 gold dragons to be given to 2/3rds to the immediate family of the murdered and to 1/3rds to the lord of winterfell
      * the measure of the punishment shall be decided by the immediate family of the murdered
    * no difference shall be made to the status of the murderer or the murdered
  * the murder of a man below the wall by a man beyond the wall shall be punished with the same action as the murder of a man from beyond the wall
    * murder shall be defined as by northern law
    * death or exile to the wall, and a fine of 30 gold dragons to be given to 2/3rds to the immediate family of the murdered and to 1/3rds to the lord of winterfell
      * the measure of the punishment shall be decided by the immediate family of the murdered
    * no difference shall be made to the status of the murderer or the murdered
  * the practice of stealing a man or a woman for marriage will be outlawed in all of the north
    * the punishment of stealing shall be death, a fine of 10 gold dragons or exile to the wall
      * the measure of the punishment shall be decided by the person who was stolen, or in the case of death, by the justice of winterfell
      * the same punishment will be enacted for any rape within any group
  * the men beyond the wall will be allowed to hunt in a region clearly defined by winterfell
    * any poaching beyond this region will be punished by 5 gold dragons paid to the owner of the land where the poaching took place
    * any poaching of any other men within this region will be punished by 5 gold dragons paid to the leader of the men beyond the wall living in that region
    * the regions will be defined by winterfell and any disputes of the lands will be regulated by winterfell and winterfell only
      * the marked regions may only be changed by winterfell
  * to keep the peace, winterfell will provided justices to the regions of the north to be winterfell’s immediate proxy in all matters of discord of men below and beyond the wall
    * the justices are only answerable to winterfell and may dismissed in cases of mismanagement



 

additionally, all clauses are only in affect as long as winterfell is occupied by house stark, either in the male or female line. the clauses may be subject to amendments, but only after talks of both groups of men under supervision of winterfell.

this agreement was signed in the year 299 after aegon’s landing, year 8489 of the men beyond the wall’s reckoning, by robb stark, in the stead of his father lord eddard stark of winterfell, and mance raydar.

witnesses from below the wall of this signing were rickon stark, catelyn stark roose bolton, medger cerwyn, barbrey dustin, robin flint, lynessa flint, halys hornwood, daryn hornwood, galbart glover, robett glover, rickard karstark, harrion karstark, ondrew locke, wyman manderly, wylis manderly, maege mormont, howland reed, rodrik rysell, helman tallhart, greatjon umber, torren liddle, soren magnar.

witness from beyond the wall of this signing were orell, styr of thenn, tormund giantbane, val queensister, varamyr, bael hornfoot, gerrick kingsblood, longspear ryk, devyn, gavin, gorm, great walrus, harle the handsome, harle the huntsman, harma, howd, lord of bones, morna, sigorn of thenn, weeper, ygon.

 

 

signed by king stannis baratheon and lord eddard stark on the 15th day of the 8th month of the year 299 after aegon’s landing with following addendum:

agreement between the men from below and beyond the wall has been ratified by the king of the seven kingdoms, stannis baratheon the first of his name.

 

notorized by the citadel, on the 31st day of the 8th month of the year 299 after aegon’s landing

 

 

+

 

Sansa stands on the docks, overlooking the water in Blackwater Bay. Once upon a time she had overlooked these waters, praying for a way to get home. Now she was actually going to leave for home from this same dock.

“Sweetling, are you ready?” Father asks. He stands behind her and smiles at her. He will be staying in the city, with no more than the bare bones of their household. The other men would join them north again. Sansa almost wants to beg Father to keep more guards with him, but she knows that attracting attention would be the worst for him and less men with him was better should he need to flee quickly from the city.

“Yes, I am.” She sets her sights on the ship that will bring them to White Harbor. The other have long boarded. Sansa can see Arya exploring the deck of the ship and dearest Alys already looks somewhat sea sick. She turns back, towards the Red Keep, and wonders if she will see it again. She hopes she will never have to, but she will not say that out loud. The Gods have a way to punish such words.

“You mustn’t worry, Sansa. I will be fine.” Father says, misinterpreting her look. Well, perhaps it isn’t misinterpreted. She is afraid of what will happen to him, but she also thinks Father will be able to work more freely if they are no longer in the city and he does not have to worry about him. “I will keep you apprised my dear.”

“Thank you.” Sansa says softly. “You know what happened after Robert’s death the last time. Don’t let Stannis on the throne blind you to any possible claimant.”

“I won’t Sansa, I swear.”

“The Lannister will declare war as soon as they feel the Throne is weakened. They will declare war, no matter what. They will never allow someone else to sit on the throne.”

“I know, Sansa.” Father says. “We are working towards all eventualities.”

“Tywin Lannister is so clever. The best thing would be to kill him early. Cersei may think she is clever, but her strategy relies entirely on chaos. That makes dangerous, but odds have it they will drive her own army into the ground long before they can decimate yours.” Sansa blurts out. “And Joffrey is cruel, and he wants nothing more desperately than power, so he does not have to feel like he never felt any love from his mother or father. Don’t think you can reason with Joffrey. He was raised to be King and he expects nothing else.”

“I know, Sansa.”

She looks up at his earnest face and nods. “Okay.” She bites at her lip and exhales. “A boy pretending to be Aegon Targaryen will come to Westeros for his throne. He is not a true Targaryen. Dany is. She is not a bad queen, and we do need her dragons one day when the war comes. We cannot kill them, no matter how dangerous they are. Without the dragons we are lost.”

She will just have to take it on faith that Dany has both a child and her dragons. She cannot even think about the possibility of that not being true.

“I understand, Sansa.” Father says, though he seems troubled. “But Stannis will never give up his throne.”

“No he won’t.” Sansa agrees. “And Daenerys will not either. But we cannot let them tear each other apart when we need both their strength and their armies.”

“Sansa you cannot influence everything.”

“I know that. If I could Robert would have stayed King long enough to have 13 bouncing baby boys and the inheritance would not even be questioned.” Sansa says darkly.

Father smiles at that, and then embraces her. “Robert’s heart simply gave out Sansa. There is nothing anyone could have done. You must go now, sweetling. Tell your mother and brothers I love them very much and I cannot wait to come home.”

“I will.” Sansa promises.

She presses a kiss onto Father’s cheek and steps back. She boards the ship with a heavy heart and watches as Father exchanges a few words with the Captain of the ship. A heavy bag of gold exchanges hands. Sansa has the second bag of the payment hidden in her trunk to be given over at delivery.

The captain shouts something and the sailors return the shout, before the ship is pushed from the dock. Sansa waves at Father as they sail further away, staring at his sole figure on the dock until he is too small for her to see.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, yeah, this was quicker than even I expected lmao. i wrote this instead of writing my paper, bc fuck uni you know ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> also, i posted another oneshot in this series from Marg's POV of chapter 15-18. check that out if you want a pause from Sansa's POV and some more insight into this little universe of mine. i will be posting more and more of those, so think about subscribing to the series! 
> 
> thank you all so much to all comments and kudos <3


	20. Travels/Winterfell - 299, Pt. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Travelling, Changes and Heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this update! it appears I write best and most when I have about a thousand other things to do for uni. 
> 
> Figures.

It is sweet to see Myrcella laughing at Jenny’s rather wild dance. They all sit together in the mass of the ship. Jenny dances to Thyra’s Skagosi song, in an effort to lighten the mood. They have been sailing for close to a week now and while everyone is excited to go home to Winterfell, tempers are rising from being stuck on a ship for so long.

Poor Alys is still dreadfully sea-sick, spending most of her time vomiting or lying in her bed.

Tommen is sullen every day, though Sansa suspects that has less to do with the ship ride and more to do with his father’s death and Tommen’s own exile to the Wall. She has tried to talk to the boy, telling him stories Jon or Uncle Benjen had told her about the Watch over the years. But she can understand that Tommen is not happy to have to join the Night’s Watch. After all, he is not doing so out of free will, forced into punishment for something Tommen did not do.

Myrcella is happier than her brother, perhaps because she knows she will stay with Sansa and the others at Winterfell. Sansa hopes that Myrcella never realizes that essentially, she is still a hostage in Winterfell for her mother’s good behavior. Robb would never hurt her, even if the Lannisters do start a war, but a hostage Myrcella is nevertheless.

Bran loves the ship, climbing atop masts that have the Captain and Sansa shrieking for his safety. He follows the sailors around each day and Sansa wonders if Bran has a new dream for life. Father has made plans with Uncle Brynden for Bran to join him as a squire when Bran is just a little older, but perhaps Bran will rather stay with the Manderlys – learning the trade of a shipman.

Arya too enjoys being on the ship, though the sailors do not let her follow them around as they do with Bran. It infuriates Arya, until she realizes that no one will actually stop her from discovering the ins and outs of the ship on her own.

Sansa herself cannot wait to have proper land underneath her feet again. She does not like travelling by ship much, disliking being stuck in space so limited for such a long time. Then again, she is glad to know that the journey will be much shorter than it would be by land travel.

 

+

 

“How is he?” Wylla asks.

Sansa looks up at her lady and shakes her head. “I simply do not know what is wrong with him.” She brushes Bran’s sweaty hair from his forehead and sighs. She hates this. She really really does. What made Bran so ill now? This was nothing she could have predicted and no one, not Sansa, not Thyra, not the ship’s medic, knew what to do. They did not even know what ailed Bran. He was sick, that was without doubt, but he was neither seasick nor did he have any outward sign of what might be wrong with him. He simply did not awake.

“You should get some rest, my lady.” Wylla says softly. “I will sit with him.”

“I cannot.” Sansa protests. She is bone tired, unwilling and also unable to sleep while her baby brother was so ill. She could not live with herself if her Mother never saw Bran again. The Gods would not be so cruel, Sansa hopes. She sighs and drops her head onto Bran’s bed.

“You should.”

They both look up as the Captain enters the chamber. His face is taut and uncomfortable as he looks upon them. “Mi’lady.” He says. “We are still a week from White Harbor. If mi’lady wishes, we could turn around and try and go to a port along the fingers and pray they have a master there.”

Sansa shakes her head. “White Harbor has a maester in the castle. They will be able to help my brother. We should keep on course and sail north.”

“Of course, mi’lady.” The Captain looks at Bran’s pale face. He swallows.

“Thank you, Captain.” Sansa says, acknowledging the Captain’s fear of Bran dying on his ship. “I know you have done everything in your ability to make my brother better.”

He nods. “If there is anything we can do.”

“Not in the present, Captain.” Sansa dismisses him. He nods, bowing for a moment and then he leaves the room again. Sansa misses it, already looking down at Bran, who still lies motionlessly in his bed.

 

+

 

“Hush my baby.” Sansa sings in a soft whisper, brushing Bran’s hair from his face. “Mama will protect you. Papa will defen-“ 

“Mama?” A soft voice croaks.

Sansa nearly cries when Bran’s eyes open, looking up at her blearily. “Oh gods,” She whispers, “Bran!” She leans down to kiss Bran’s forehead over and over and over again. It has been close to a week since Bran was last awake. Sansa had barely slept in the time, so afraid her baby brother would die while they were so close to safety.

“What-“ Bran asks weakly.

Sansa kisses him again. “You are sick, Bran.”

“I dreamt.” Bran says. “I dreamt of a crow, telling me to pass the wall, and of Winterfell melting in dragon fire and of Arya dying in a tower in a pool of blood.”

Sansa’s heartrate rises dramatically. Winterfell melting in dragon fire? Bran knows nothing of Dany’s dragons – how could he? Not even Sansa knows if they exist now – so how could he dream of Winterfell melting dragon fire?

And Arya dying in a tower? Sansa knows only of one girl with the Stark look dying in a tower in a pool of blood and that was Aunt Lyanna. Jon’s mother had died in the Tower of Joy and from what Howland Reed had once told them, she had bled out from birth.

What dreams were these?

“Sansa?” Bran asks. His voice shakes, and she looks down at him. “Sansa, there is something wrong with my eyes.”

Sansa’s heart skips. “What do you mean, my love?” She asks him, gently.

Bran shakes under her hands. “I cannot see, Sansa.”

 

++

 

No one can find any fault with Bran’s eyes. Even the maester at White Harbor cannot find any cause, carefully speaking of an optimistic outlook for if there is no true cause then perhaps they will see again one day.

Wyman Manderly does his absolute best to accommodate them, for Bran still needs to recuperate before they continue on to Winterfell, and they are given fine chambers that overlook the harbor. Wylla enjoys showing them around the city, with Wynfryd joining them as well, and the little excursions thankfully take her mind off Bran’s illness.

Bran seems to wither away before her eyes. He refuses to eat, so angry at losing his eyesight, and though they all try and keep his mood lifted, Sansa fears it is a losing battle. They will need to get to Winterfell as swiftly as possible, Sansa thinks, so that Mother can sooth Bran’s spirits.

He still dreams however, in vibrant detail, and Sansa recalls Rickon telling tales about Bran being able to look both forward and backwards in time. Perhaps this is that same thing. Sansa does not know of any other reason why else he would have seen Aunt Lyanna in her deathbed.

She asks him to tell her all about his dreams, but Bran refuses, muttering something about the crow not liking that. He flinches from her touch, and only her touch. He allows Arya and the ladies to touch him all they like, but Sansa he flinches away from. It hurts and Sansa wonders what cruel vision he had seen of her.

“I don’t dream. It feels a memory.” She overhears Bran telling Arya, who asks of the dreams. Sansa stands behind the door, hoping neither will register her presence. “And they are such strange dreams. I saw a girl looking like you running from a man with white hair and a boy who looked so much like Jon standing in front of dragon and being burnt alive.”

The words haunt Sansa for the rest of week and everyone notices the change in her behavior. She is almost glad, when the maester announces Bran well enough for travel and Wyman Manderly equips a small ship capable of sailing up the White Knife to Castle Cerwyn. Sansa stands by the deck during most of the two-day journey. She is left alone, thankfully, only Dorris hovering a few feet away at all times, but she is almost used to his presence by now.

She spends her time thinking. Does Bran’s vision of Jon being burnt by dragon fire mean a rather ill omen for Jon’s future? Or was a vision of the past? But Sansa does not recall any tale of a Stark being burnt by dragon fire. She can only think of her Uncle Brandon and Grandfather tortured and killed by the Mad King Aerys, but Bran would have recognized if it were wildfire rather dragon fire who killed the man in his dreams. She fears it means that Jon is therefor marked for death by Dany’s dragons. She can scarcely think of it, but it is not impossible to imagine Daenerys killing the son of her brother, as he might stand in the way of her throne. In their past life, Jon and Daenerys had gotten along fairly well. Dany had not liked the threat he posed her Queenship, but the threat to the north eclipsed all others. They had been neither particularly great friends, nor great enemies. Sansa had been of the impression they would have liked to not think much of each other. The only living member of a family both had never truly known.

The other vision Sansa understood. Howland Reed had told them, her and Jon, the wonderful tale of Lyanna Stark competing in a tourney and being hunted by King Aerys in response. She did not know if the scene Bran had probably witnessed had truly happened as it did, but a Stark running from a Targaryen seemed prudently important at the moment.

They stay at Castle Cerwyn for a night, enjoying a small feast Master Cerwyn hosts in their honor, but Sansa is glad to see the Castle gone, for she knows that now they are only half a day from Winterfell. The Cerwyn’s loan them enough horses for all of them, and Sansa swears she will remember the kindness they have bestowed upon them.

Sansa rides in the back of their party, only Dorris and a silent Thyra by her side. They ride in silence for most of the day, though the journey takes less long than Sansa had thought. Everyone is eager to come home.

It is long past midday but still light out when Winterfell comes into view. Sansa has half the heart to weep at the sight, but she only tells everyone to ride on. They reach Winter Town first. It is much fuller than when Sansa left nearly 5 moon turns ago. The smallfolk stare as their party arrives and one particularly brave boy steps forward and greats them.

“’Re you the other Stark children.” He asks. The accent in his voice is unfamiliar to Sansa’s ears, not a northern accent in truth. She looks around and wonders.

“We are.” Arya says, in a tone that has Sansa smile a little. She sounds very confrontational as if asking the boy what it was to him.

“Haven’t seen you before.” The boy says. “Your Lord Jon said you would come much sooner.”

A woman runs forward, gathering the boy and basically hiding him from view. “He done meant no disrespect.” She tells them all.

These are the wildlings, Sansa realizes suddenly as she looks at the woman. How had Robb said the smallfolk called this part of town? Wildtown? For all Sansa could tell, these people looked the same as the smallfolk of the north.

“We know.” Sansa says. She smiles at the assembled men and women and says, in the Old Tongue: “Thank you for your welcome.” At least that is what Sansa hopes she says, but a quick look back at Thyra confirms her words were correct. The free folk look surprised at her grasp of the language. Sansa adds: “We will go home now. We missed it.”

They nod, understanding, which has to be true, Sansa realizes, for they all left their own homes for new and untraveled lands. The crowd split far enough that Sansa, and the others, can move through atop their horses. She is very well aware of the eyes following them, as more and more people come out of their houses to watch them pass. At least, Sansa thinks with some amusement as they pass very slowly, this has given Mother and Robb and everyone else enough time to be informed of their arrival.

When they reach the Gate, the guards great them warmly. “You have been missed.” They say, as they are allowed to pass.

 

+

 

“Sister.” Robb says, embracing Sansa tightly. Sansa holds him tight, pressing her face to his shoulder and breathing in a few times. “Sansa.” Robb repeats. He runs a hand over her shoulder blades and then gently untangles her from him. “Welcome home, sister.”

“I missed you.” Sansa says.

“I missed you too.” Robb says. He looks over her shoulder and opens his arms. Arya wiggles in between the two of them, with an unsubtle jab into Sansa’s ribs.

She feels like there is a cloud in her head as she turns and looks at Mother’s beaming face.

“My girl.” Mother says, tears in her eyes. She still has a hand on Bran’s shoulder and Sansa puts her own hand atop of Mother’s. Bran flinches at the touch, but he does not move away. “My girl.”

Sansa smiles, and steps closer, finally hugging Mother as close to her as she can possibly. It tears open all the walls in Sansa’s head that had kept her together throughout the journey north. Sansa feels herself shudder and start crying, the relief of finally coming home etched deep into her soul. She was so, so afraid she would never come home again. She was so afraid Arya and Bran would never come home again.

“Oh, my darling girl.” Mother says softly once she registers Sansa’s tears. “Oh darling, don’t cry. You are home now.”

“I know.” Sansa says, though her voice breaks on the words and she buries her teary face in Mother’s warm furs. “I know.” She repeats, angry at herself for tearing up in public. She has been crying so much since arriving at King’s Landing, but that had always been in private with only herself as witness. Now, she was weeping before them all.

Mother sighs and holds her close. When she pulls away Mother is crying too, but with a big smile on her face. “Look, Sansa. I have someone to introduce you to.”

Sansa looks, over at where Mother points, at Meera, who looks somewhat uncomfortable at the attention on her, but then she sees the bundle in Meera’s arms. Oh, Sansa thinks, registering suddenly that Mother is no longer with child. Of course. Sansa had known, intellectually, that Mother had been pregnant when they left and more than enough time had passed for the babe to be born, but Sansa’s mind also did not yet remember she has another sibling in this life.

Meera comes forward at Mother’s beckon. “Sansa, this is your sister. We have named her Minisanne, for my mother.”

Sansa looks on the tiny face, with tiny eyes, a tiny nose, tiny ears and a tiny, tiny mouth. “Oh mother.” Sansa says, unconsciously reaching out for her baby sister. “She is so beautiful.” Mother gently places Minisanne into her arms and Sansa looks down at the babe and wonders.

Was she the sign that things would be good for them? Was Minisanne a sign that Sansa and Jon had changed things to the better in such a manner they would all be okay again?

Sansa’s mind jars and she looks up, startled. “Where is Jon?” She asks, asking Robb rather than Mother. She looks around, as if Jon is only hiding in the shadows.

“He is in Free Town speaking with the Wildlings.” Robb tells her gently. “He’ll be back soon.”

Oh, okay. Sansa’s suddenly elevated heartrate settles again, the fear of _something_ settled again, and she looks back down at Minisanne, who still sleeps peacefully in her arms.

“When was she born?” Sansa asks, softly.

Mother smiles at them both. “Almost a moon’s turn ago. I have sent a letter south, but there had not yet been a reply.”

Sansa nods, feeling ill suddenly at the reminder of the south. “Do you call her Minisanne?” Sansa asks. “It is rather a mouthful.”

Robb laughs at that. “I have been telling Mother that since she was named.”

Mother laughs softly as well. “Rickon has been calling her Sanni.”

“She is Minnie.” Robb interjects.

Sansa looks down at the baby. “Minnie suits her.”

“Aye, it does.” Mother says, looking at Sansa and Minisanne with unbearable softness in her eyes.

Arya tugs at Sansa’s arm. “Let me see.” Sansa tilts Minnie’s face lower and Arya looks for a long moment, before dryly stating: “She is cute, I guess.”

Sansa snorts, not able to help herself, but not surprised in the slightest. Arya is not interested in babes, has never been and will probably never be. “She is beautiful.”

“You only say that now,” Robb says with humor in his voice, “wait until she screams at night for hours.”

“That is what babes do.” Mother says, in a tone that makes Sansa thinks she and Robb have had this conversation numerous times. “You screamed more than all of your siblings combined.

Robb blusters, turning red at the laughter all around.

“Let’s get inside.” Mother says then. “I don’t want Minnie to stay in the cold for so long.”

Sansa reluctantly hands her sister back to Mother, who kisses Sansa’s cheek in response. She looks back at her ladies and smiles at the expression on their faces. “Go to your rooms, take the rest of the day.”

They all curtsey, and Jeyne is the first to run off, understandable as she has not seen her father for as long as Sansa has not seen her family. One by one they all leave, until Thyra steps close and runs a finger along Sansa’s cheek. “You look happier.” Thyra says softly. Sansa does not miss her friend does not say she looks happy, but that would be a lie. “Do you need anything of me?”

Sansa leans into the touch slightly. “Can you take Myrcella to your room? There should be a bed ready for her.” She asks.

“Of course.” Thyra smiles, looking back at Myrcella, who stands looking very uncomfortable. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you Thyra.”

Thyra smiles and taps Sansa’s nose gently. “Enjoy it, Sansa.” Thyra says in the old tongue.

Sansa only smiles in response. She turns back to her family, who have all, but Robb left already. Robb looks at her curiously but doesn’t say a word as she steps beside him and hooks an arm into his.

“I am glad you are back.” Robb says softly as they walk into the innards of the castle, towards the family solar.

Sansa smiles up at him. “I am glad to be back.”

“Jon will be so happy to see you.” Robb says, teasingly.

Sansa looks away, feeling her face heat inexplicably. “I-“ She does not know what to say to that, but she smiles to herself.

“How was the south?” Robb asks, curiously.

“Exhausting.” Sansa says, immediately and honestly. “It is a pit of evil.”

Robb looks vaguely shocked at her vicious response. “Sansa-“

“I am sorry.” Sansa says immediately. “I didn’t mean to …”

“Was it truly that bad?” Robb asks.

Sansa stays silent for a moment, uncertain what to say to that. “Yes.” She says simply. At Robb’s expression she thinks she needs to elaborate. “Robb, in the two moons we were there, the Queen was poisoned, then shown to be a fraud and the children of the King were exposed as being the children of the Queen and her brother. Then the King married another woman and died that same night. Now Father is in the south trying to stop an inevitable war.”

“Why inevitable?”

“Because the Lannisters will never allow the throne to pass them by while they were so close to being on it.” Sansa says. “Cersei Lannister will never let that insult stand and Joff was raised to be King. He will settle for nothing less.”

 Robb looks uncomfortable. “Was the Queen truly, um,”

“Fucking her brother?” Sansa supplies.

Robb makes a sound at her language, tightening his grip on her hand. “Yes. That.”

“She was.” Sansa shakes her head and sighs. “I still do not know how Robert found out or how Cersei found out that Robert found out.”

“He did.”

“Aye. And it killed him nevertheless.”

“How did he die in your last … life?” Robb asks.

“He died during a hunt. I honestly do not know if it was a proper accident or if one of the Lannister managed to kill him.” Sansa says. “No one ever told me.”

Robb stays silent and Sansa doesn’t say anything either as they step into the family solar where the others wait for them. Sansa looks over the room and gasps when Lady runs at her. She drops to her knees and wraps both arms around Lady’s neck hugging her darling wolf as tightly as Lady will permit. She has grown so much in the months they were gone, but Lady still knows Sansa. Lady licks her cheek once and nuzzles her neck and Sansa smiles. She misses Lady so much. The other wolves are in the room as well, settled by the feet of their respective owners and Sansa smiles. They are all alive.

Bran sits on the most comfortable chair and Maester Luwin kneels by his side. The Maester is peering into Bran’s unseeing eyes, and Sansa can only pray that their maester can find a cure for Bran. Bran will never be able to do any of the things he planned, being a knight or a shipmaster or a Kingsguard or anything else, if he cannot see.

Arya sits by Mother’s side, along with Rickon and they all look up when Robb and Sansa enter the room. “We feared you had gotten lost.” Mother teases.

Sansa knows it is said in jest, but it only reminds Sansa of returning to Winterfell in her past life, when nothing in the castle had been as Sansa remembered. Ramsay had taken it apart and put it back to together all wrong, so that Sansa had felt a disconnect then between the Winterfell she knew and the Winterfell she saw.

“Oh, Sansa.” Mother says, softly. “It was only a jest.”

Sansa wonders what her face shows if Mother can pick up on it so quickly. “I know.” She says. “I know.”

“Breath, Sansa. You are home now.” Robb says, gently running a hand over her back.

Sansa smiles, tightly. He is right. She is home now. She can breathe now.

 

+

 

Sansa clings onto consciousness as best as she can, though she is cushioned in the warmth of the fire before her, Lady and the love of her family close by. Arya and Rickon sleep already, both lying by Mother’s side and Sansa smiles at the sight of the two of them curled into each other. Mother runs her hands over them both gently, in an unconscious motion. Robb sits by Meera’s side, speaking quietly enough to not disturb the otherwise silent room. Bran lies on a sofa, sleeping as well, and he seems to be dreaming, twitching in his sleep.

Sansa hears the door unlatch before Jon even stumbles into the room, eyes wild and not sparing a thought for manners or courtesy as he looks around the room. He pants a little, and Sansa wonders if he had run here. “Oh, thank the gods.” Jon says. He is looking at her and Sansa sits up when she sees him, all the sleepiness suddenly wiped from her mind. He takes a step towards her when a small body slams into him from the side. Jon manages to catch Arya before they both go stumbling onto the floor and Arya clings to Jon.

Sansa smiles, watching them both, and Jon catches her eye over Arya’s shoulder. The strange feeling in Sansa’s chest does not disappear as she watches them, and Sansa looks over at Mother for a moment, watching for her reaction. When they had left Mother had been so angry at Father, at Sansa, at Jon, for Jon’s parentage. Now, so many months later, Sansa does not know in what way Jon and Mother have settled the differences between the two. Mother does not look happy, or smile, but she does not glare at Jon as she had once. She looks away after a moment, focusing her attention on Rickon who still sleeps beside her.

“I missed you too, Arya.” Jon says in respond to something Arya had said before. They untangle and Sansa smiles as Arya keeps her arms wrapped around Jon’s waist. He drags her forward to where Sansa still sits on the sofa, and Sansa looks up at him, suddenly inexplicably shy.

“Hello.” Sansa whispers.

“Hello.” Jon says back, a small, teasing smile on his face.

Arya groans beside them, and Sansa laughs at Arya’s reaction. “You two are so stupid.” Arya says, and Mother protests her language behind them.

Sansa is not surprised when Jon leans down to press a kiss onto her forehead and she smiles up at him, one hand curled into the soft fabric of his doublet. Jon’s hand smooths back Sansa’s hair, running a thumb over her cheek. Sansa leans into the touch slightly, closing her eyes for a moment. He breaks the contact as he falls into the seat beside her, close enough she can still feel his warmth, but far enough away that they do not touch. Sansa does not have to look over to see Arya seat herself on Jon’s other side. The sofa suddenly feels too small for the three of them, but Sansa does not care as she leans into Jon’s side carefully, smiling as he wraps an arm around her shoulder.

“Did Vayon have anything enlightening to say?” Robb asks then. He looks at them with a small smile on his face, arm wrapped around Meera, who smiles as well.

Sansa feels Jon shrug. “Not particularly. There were a few disputes on the Border Street, but nothing they cannot handle themselves.” Jon says. “No need for us to get involved.”

“Border Street?” Sansa asks.

“Where the Freetown and Winter Town meet. The street that was created when both Town’s expanded have been called Border Street.” Jon explains. His thumb rubs at her shoulder. “It is the one place the two smallfolk mostly mingle.”

“How has it been?” Sansa asks.

Jon shrugs again. “Mostly good. There have been no deaths so far, so that is good.”

He is smiling when Sansa turns to him incredulously. “Your measure of good is that no one has been killed yet?”

“Am I wrong?” Jon asks.

They look at each other for a moment, before Sansa shakes her head. “I suppose not.” Jon smiles at that, and Sansa feels that strange tightness in her chest again. Perhaps she needs to see Maester Luwin.

“Tell her of the market.” Robb says then. Sansa tears her eyes away from Jon and looks at her big brother.

“There is a new market where the smallfolk exchange ideas.”

“Exchange ideas?” Sansa echoes, not understanding.

Jon nods. “The free folk have lived beyond the wall for so long, they know much better how to deal with ice and cold than even the smallfolk of the north.” He explains. “The smallfolk of the north know much better how to live in huts and houses and make money in the shadow of Winterfell.”

“And now they are helping each other.” Sansa finishes the thought. It is good, Sansa thinks, to know that the two peoples are not close to slaughtering each other. “An exchange of knowledge.”

“Aye.” Jon squeezes her shoulder and she leans back closer.

Minisanne starts crying then, in her crib, and with a volume that startles Sansa. Mother stands, hurrying to Minnie’s side and picking her up. Now, out of the thick furs that had hidden most of her outside, Sansa can see her baby sister’s red hair and that she is even smaller than she had appeared outside.

“She looks like you did as a babe.” Jon whispers into her ear. “Lady Stark agrees with me.”

“She is lovely.” Sansa whispers, watching Mother rock Minnie back and forth to calm her.

“She is.” Jon agrees. “Your parents make beautiful children.” Sansa snorts, too tired to keep the sound inside. Jon chuckles as well. “It is true.”

Minnie keeps crying, and Mother finally sighs. “I think it is time for bed.”

Sansa looks around the room. Mother isn’t wrong. Bran still sleeps, not even haven woken for Jon, and Rickon is still out on the couch. Arya looks close to sleep by Jon’s side as well and even Robb and Meera seem a little tired.

“I’ll bring Rickon to bed.” Jon volunteers. To Sansa’s surprise, Mother only nods not protesting in the slightest.

It does not take long for the two sleeping boys are awoken, and Robb gently leads Bran out of the room while Jon carries Rickon out. Arya stumbles blearily, leaving the room as well.

“Good night.” Meera says. “I am glad you are back, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa smiles at her good-sister. “Thank you, Meera.”

Meera squeezes her hand before disappearing from the room too, leaving Sansa and Mother alone. Mother smiles at her and steps closer to kiss Sansa’s forehead gently. “Get some sleep, my darling.”

“Goodnight.” Sansa says, watching Mother and Minnie disappear from the room. She stays there for a few moments, trying to wake her mind and legs enough to start moving as well. She dreads going into her room, strangely, without knowing why in truth.

She walks down the hallway slowly. Lady follows her on her heels, staying silent as long as Sansa stays quiet. Her room is not far from the family solar, but she walks so slowly the way takes thrice as long as usual. The hallway to her room looks the same as it has always, warm walls made of stone, and floor made of similarly warm stone. A banner hangs from the wall, not far from her door, and Sansa stops to look at the Stark sigil. She wonders sometimes why her forebears decided upon a wolf running along a snow landscape. It is a simple sigil, much simpler than the banners of the Baratheons or Tyrells, easily stitched and sown onto any kind of fabric. She herself has sown it multiple times before.

“Sansa?”

She looks away from the banner, at Jon who steps out of Rickon’s room. He looks at her quizzically, following her _gaze_ up to the banner. She feels stupid suddenly, and she looks down at the floor again.

“Come on.” Jon takes her hand and leads her away and towards her room. Sansa holds her breath as she steps into her room, waiting for something to be wrong, so sure the strange itch in the back of her head means something, but the room looks exactly the same as when she had left it so many moons ago. Sansa exhales and steps into the room.

 

_Sansa inhales and steps into her childhood bedroom. There is no way to hide her quiet sob as she takes in the mayhem. She had seen the bedroom of her parents, the destruction in there, she had also seen the boys room, similarly destroyed, but still it had not prepared Sansa for the shock of seeing her own childhood bedroom completely different than it had been when they left._

_The Boltons must have torn everything out of its place and burned it. There are scorch marks on the walls and worst of all, a Bolton banner hangs above the fireplace._

_Sansa steps forward angry, grasping the banner with both hands and pulling it down as sharply as she can manage. It won’t budge, and Sansa lets out a cry of frustration. Why won’t it come down? She pulls and pulls until two hands gently clasp over hers and she freezes._

_“Sansa-“ Jon’s voice is gentle and soft as he unclenches her hands from the banner. “Sansa.”_

_It breaks through all the dams Sansa has built and she feels the tears start rolling down her cheeks. She lets go and cups her hands to her face, to hide it from view, as she starts sobbing._

_“Sansa.”_

 

“Sansa.”

Jon is looking at her with wide eyes and Sansa is abruptly aware she still stands in the door, motionless. Nothing is wrong with her room, she knows that, but still something in her does not know if she can trust her own eyes.

Sansa does not know what the expression on her face is exactly, but Jon looks horrified as he steps close to her and he cups her face. “Sansa? What is wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.” She says, though she even she thinks it does not sound convincing. “I am sorry, I am being stupid.”

“No, you are not.” Jon says immediately, loyally and Sansa has to smile at that. He will always be loyal, her Jon.

“It is just,” she struggles to find the proper words to describe what she is feeling, “the last time I came back to Winterfell everything was so bad.”

“Oh, Sansa.” Jon says sweetly. “I know.” He sighs. “When I came home I kept seeing the Bolton banner everywhere.”

Sansa laughs, though there is no humor in it. She should have known Jon would understand. He lived the same life she did. Of course, he understands. “The whole way home I was waiting for someone to tell me Winterfell had fallen, or Father had died, or any of you were dead or injured.” She says. “I could barely breath, and then Bran … Bran was sick and woke up without his sight, and all I could think was that this was it. This was the horrible thing I was waiting for, but then I thought what if it was not.”

She closes her eyes, swallowing against the pressure on her chest, and Jon steps closer and embraces her. She feels the tears gather in her eyes, and she wants nothing more than to will them away as best she can. “I was so afraid we would not make it home. Or that we would make it home and everything would be different here.” Her voice breaks. “And Father is still in the south and I am so afraid something horrible will happen there and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Jon says sweetly. “Sansa, you can relax now.”

“I really don’t want to.” Sansa admits. “I don’t think I know how to.”

“Of course, you do.” Jon tells her. “You do not have to do everything anymore. You can trust me and Robb and Lady Stark to take some of that responsibility off your shoulders.”

Sansa bites her lip. She knows he is right, but she does not know if her mind knows it as well. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Try.” Jon says simply. “I have too.” Sansa nods and slowly pulls away from Jon. He smiles at her and keeps a hand on her shoulder. “You should sleep, you’ll feel more settled in the morning.”

She nods, though she does not want to. Biting her lip, she quietly asks: “Can you stay?”

If Jon is surprised he does not show it, only nodding at the request. He gently leads her to the bed and he settles against the headboard and does not say a word as Sansa curls by his side. Lady jumps atop the bed as well, curling up on Sansa’s other side. She does not even care she is still in her riding dress, nor that the furs might get dirty.

Jon runs a hand over her hair and gently unbraids it. She hums, moving slightly closer as he runs his fingers through her hair. She closes her eyes, and lets the warmth lull her to sleep.

 

+

 

“While we do not know what is causing Brandon’s loss of sight, that is a sign that it will return with time.” Maester Luwin tells them. His voice is grave and his face solemn and Sansa does not think Bran’s vision will return with time. “I have written the Citadel for aid and they will surely respond in time and before there is nothing to treat.” He exhales and looks around at their solemn faces. “I have treated his illness however. It appears Bran had a little bout of the flu, nothing that could have caused the loss of sight. He is perfectly healthy, but I would ask that Bran eats a portion more fruit than usual.”

“We can mix more into his morning porridge.” Mother says with a decided nod. She is pale and clings to the handkerchief in her hand. Before Sansa can reach over, Robb does the same, gently squeezing Mother’s hands. “Is there anything-“ She falters.

“No, my lady.” Maester Luwin says gently and kindly. “There is nothing to do for Bran at this time, but to pray the Gods will retrieve his sight and help him acclimate to the loss of sight.”

“How do we do that?” Robb asks.

Maester Luwin shakes his head. “You can help him if he stumbles, but I would wager Bran would be happiest if we all treat him the same as before. Perhaps let him train with Master Rodrik at time, make him listen to the sounds of the castle and let him live his life in the fullest, even with this disability.”

Sansa looks around. “How can he train if he doesn’t see?”

Robb laughs, despite the nature of the conversation. “Master Rodrik once bound our eyes and made us guess where the others were. I have never had as many bruises as I did that day.” The smile falls from his face. “Bran will never become a knight, will he?”

There is a moment of silence. “Not if his sight does not return.” Maester Luwin answers finally.

“I will try and have him help me with some of the custodial duties.” Mother offers. “He can still do numbers without his sight.”

“I would suggest we do not push Bran to do any things he would not have done before losing his sight at this moment. That is surely a good idea for when Bran has acclimated to losing his sight, but for now I would suggest to giving him some time, Lady Stark.” Maester Luwin says gently. He would never tell Mother to do anything, but Sansa guesses if any of them push Bran to do too much, he would scold them gently. “He has made great friends with young Jojen Reed. Perhaps we should foster that friendship for now.”

“And I will heed your council, Maester.” Mother says.

 

+

 

Sansa laughs as Minnie grabs for her hair with her tiny baby hands. “You like that?” She asks her, sweetly. “Nice and bright, is it not?” Minnie makes a sound that feels like an agreement to Sansa and she laughs. “You think I am Mama, don’t you?”

Minnie gurgles, pulling at Sansa’s hair, who winces and laughs in surprise.

“She likes you.” Mother says from her seat at the table. Sansa looks over at her in surprise, and Mother smiles at them both. “She has been a little choleric recently.” Minnie’s head turns towards Mother’s voice and she makes happy sounds once she sees her mother. Mother laughs. “Not today however.”

Minnie tugs at Sansa’s hair again, making her wince. She gently untangles her baby sisters hand from her hair and placates Minnie with her finger. Minnie immediately pulls the hand close with surprising strength to shove it in her mouth. Sansa only peers down in the little face, letting Minnie chew at her finger with her tiny tooth-less mouth.

“She can tell we are happy.” Sansa guesses.

“Perhaps.” Mother says. “Or she just likes you.”

Sansa smiles. She wants Minnie to like her. She had been too young when Rickon was first born to truly appreciate him. She was older now, old enough in mind to have a child of her own, and while Sansa truly did not want a child yet, she was content with giving her baby sister all the love and cherishment in the world.

There is a knock at the door and at Mother’s soft “come in”, Jon steps into the room. Sansa looks up in surprise, startled about Mother’s non-reaction and the small smile on Jon’s face.

“Good morning.” He tells them both. “Vayon has finally decided on the girl.” He then tells Mother, who nods in response. There is none of the ugly resentment that usually colors Mother’s interactions with Jon in the air at the moment, but Sansa still holds her breath.

“Good.” Mother says simply.

Jon nods. “She will start her training tomorrow.”

Sansa looks between the two. “What girl?” She asks, curiously.

“A girl from the free folk will be added to my own retinue.” Mother explains. “To foster good will between our two people.”

Sansa nods in understanding. “That is a good idea.”

Jon steps closer to her and runs a gentle hand over Minnie’s soft head. Little Minnie makes a very happy sound and lets go of Sansa’s finger to grab for Jon. “May I?” He asks her quietly and lifts Minnie out of Sansa’s arms at her nod.

“I took on a girl from Winter Town as well.” Mother explains. She is watching Jon and Minnie, though there is still no resentment in her eyes. “So that the smallfolk will not think we prefer the free folk to them.”

“Should I do something similar?” Sansa wonders.

Jon shakes his head. “I wouldn’t.” He says. “You only have ladies or nobles in your retinue. Don’t add girls of the smallfolk to that or you will end with a retinue of dozens of ladies.” He grins down at Minnie and says in the most ridiculous baby speak: “Isn’t that right, my itty-bitty baby?”

“I agree.” Mother says, barely looking up from the papers she reads. “You have done well in fostering ties within the north, but there is no need for you to foster ties with the smallfolk as well. Let Arya and me do that. Minnie later as well.” Mother looks up to watch Jon and Minnie.

Jon is rocking Minnie back and forth, grinning down at the baby, not even aware of Mother’s gaze. It is a fond gaze and Sansa suddenly wonders since when the two of them seem to be on such good terms. When Sansa had left, Mother had thought of Jon as the greatest threat to their family, and now they seemed on proper good terms, or at least not on bad ones. She will need to ask Jon about it.

“Alys has asked to be allowed to go back home.” Sansa reveals then. “I believe she finally wishes to get married to the Hornwood boy.”

Jon and Sansa exchange glances. In their last life Alys had been so happy with Sigorn. Sansa can only hope that Daryn Hornwood does not die as he had in their past life, and Alys will be just as happy. Her lady deserves all the best in the world.

“What was that?” Mother asks curiously.

Sansa looks at Jon. “In, before, Alys was married to another.” She explains then. It is freeing, she thinks not for the first time, to be able to talk of what happened to them, without having to guard her tongue. “Jon, do you know where Sigorn settled?”

“No, I don’t.” Jon looks uncomfortable. “I am not even certain the Thenns came south with the rest.”

Sansa frowns. The Thenns would probably have it worst, acclimating to living in a land where the Starks ruled. They would need to choose between their Magnar and the Starks, and Sansa could not think that the Starks would be victorious in that little fight.

“Where is Mance? And Val?” Sansa asks then, remembering them both.

Jon smiles. “Mance, Dalla and Val are here, in Free Town. Dalla lived and the babe is a beautiful boy.”

“Did you know them before?” Mother asks, haltingly. She seems uncomfortable with the question itself, which Sansa understands.

“Not Mance.” Sansa tells her. “But Val I knew. She,” Sansa’s words falter, “was killed when the Wall fell.”

Mother pales. “Gods be good.” She mutters. “I can scarcely believe the wall could ever fall.”

Jon laughs, an ugly and almost bitter sound. “Neither did we.”

Mother looks at him sharply. Perhaps Sansa had overestimated how much or how little Mother still resents Jon. “Will it happen now?”

Jon shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “In our life, the Horn was found by a sworn brother and then a bunch of shit happened.” Mother makes a small sound of protest at his language. “I do not know if it happened the same here, or if the horn is still somewhere at the fist.”

“Gods be good, I hope Sam has it.” Sansa mutters.

Jon laughs. “I do too, but I cannot exactly write Sam and ask him.”

Sansa looks at him for a moment. “Jon. You could ask Benjen to ask.” She says.

Jon seems stunned, before he laughs. “Gods, I keep forgetting he is still alive.”

Sansa laughs. “Did you not ride beyond the wall with him and organize the resettlement with him for many months?”

“And he was dead for almost 7 years before.” Jon shakes his head. “I’ll write Uncle Benjen.”

Mother has a strange look on her face and Sansa watches her as she searches for her words. “Benjen was dead as well?”

Jon and Sansa look at each other for a moment. “Aye.” Sansa says gently. “And you, and Father, and Robb, and Maester Luwin and Old Nan and a great many other people.”

Mother laughs, a sad, terrible laugh that has Sansa and Jon look at each other. Jon takes a step closer to Sansa and sits down beside her on the couch. Minnie makes a small sound in Jon’s arm, probably noticing the strange atmosphere in the room even at her young age. “Gods be good.” Mother breathes. “How are you still standing, Sansa.”

Barely, she wants to say, but that is not what Mother needs to hear right now. Sansa feels Jon’s warmth by her side, his thigh pressed lightly against hers and she feels a light touch on the small of her back. “Everything is better now. I’ll fall when this is all over.”

“But when will that be?” Mother asks, still sounding horrified.

Sansa does not know how to answer that.

“When the war is over, and the Others are gone again.” Jon says softly beside her. “Which is what we are working for. Which is why we have brought the Free Folk below the wall and why the wall is reinforcing the castles.”

“It is already much better than last time.” Sansa says sweetly to reassure Mother. “Last time we were already long into a civil war by this time, half of the Riverlands were destroyed, Father was dead, Robb was King …”

By the expression on Mother’s face Sansa did not help her. She looks heartbroken and Sansa startles when Mother stands abruptly, walking towards them and sinks onto her knees before Sansa. “Oh, my baby.” Mother whispers, taking both of Sansa’s hands into hers. “I am sorry this happened to you.” She kisses Sansa on the forehead, gentle and heartbreaking all the same, and Sansa shudders. “Oh darling.”

Minnie makes a sound and Sansa startles, looking over at Jon, who looks extremely uncomfortable, and Minnie, who wiggles in Jon’s arm.

“I’ll leave you two.” Jon says then. “I’ll take Minnie to the nursery.”

He stands and if the situation were different, Sansa would have half the mind to laugh at the way he practically flees the room. The door latches behind him and Sansa hears the startled cry of a baby behind it, but the sound fades quickly.

“He has stepped up.” Mother says, which is about the biggest compliment she can probably give Jon.

Sansa smiles nevertheless, for any turn towards the better can only be good. “Yes.” She says softly. “He does that.”

Mother’s mouth twists, just for a moment, and she takes both of Sansa’s hands in hers. “Darling. You and I have not had a proper time to talk yet, about what you told me, Robb and your Father before you left for the south.”

Sansa nods. It is true. They had not. They had fought before Sansa left and thought they had exchanged letters since, that did not account for the same as a proper talk. Sansa tenses nevertheless, not knowing what Mother will say know. She can only think of Mother’s horrified expression when she had revealed Jon’s parentage, and the way mother had stormed from the room then.

“Sansa. I need you to know that I know you are still my girl.” Mother begins. “I know that you are still my first baby girl and you will always be.”

Sansa startles. She had never even thought about the idea that Mother or Father would think of her as an imposter. Mother must read her expression, as she apologizes immediately. “I misspoke. I only meant that you will always be my baby girl.”

Sansa nods.

Mother sighs.  “Sansa. As a mother, I would like to protect you of every single bad thing that could possibly happen to you.” She looks older than she is in this moment. “I evidentially did not.” Sansa starts protesting, but Mother shushes her again. “I realize that I had no choice in it, but that does not change the fact that you were failed by all of us.”

“I wasn’t failed.” Sansa says quietly. “You and Father could not know what would happen when we left Winterfell.”

“No, we could not.” Mother says gently. “But we were your parents and we should have protected you.”

Sansa looks down at her hands. She will not pretend she did not at time rage against the world that she had been stuck in King’s Landing alone. She had waited for Robb to rescue her for years and had learned only much later that Robb had never truly attempted to free her or Arya. She did not blame him, not truly for she would not have made a different decision as Queen, but she could not help the quiet feeling of betrayal that had itched at the back of her mind when she thought about it.

“And Sansa, we are worried about you.” Mother says. “You have been back for a week now and I barely see you smile except when you play with Minnie. I know you are not the baby girl you were just two years ago, but even before you went south you smiled and seemed happy.”

Sansa glances up. There are tears in Mother’s eyes and Sansa hates that she seems to be hurting the people around her so much. “I am not sad.” Sansa says. It is not dishonest, but it is perhaps not truly honest either. “I am afraid of what will come. I am afraid of what will happen in the south if Stannis and Father are not able to stop the brewing war. I am afraid the Others will pass the wall any day now and that the North will be ill prepared to fight them. I am afraid we will be alone in the fight against the Others while the South refuses to help. I am afraid of Winterfell burning to the ground, and of Dany and her dragons not existing because she has a true babe now. I am afraid that Dany will start the war in the south rather than help us against the Others and make everything much worse than it was. What if I make everything so much worse than it was?”

Sansa is shaking when she finishes, out of breath and tears blur her sight as she looks at her Mother, who squeezes her hands. “Oh darling.” Mother takes a seat beside her and wraps a warm arm around Sansa’s shoulder. She kisses Sansa’s hair and sighs heavily. “I cannot pretend to know what will happen, darling, but things must be better than they were for you before. We are still here, at Winterfell, and we will not give up the castle for anything. We are prepared because you and Jon have told us so much we could have had no way of knowing before.”

“But-“

“No buts, Sansa. You will never be able to predict everything.” Mother rubs her hand over Sansa’s arm. “Look, my darling. Unfortunately, not everything in life will always be great. The Gods never give us more than we can handle. They must have thought you and Jon capable of handling this catastrophe, and you have. You stopped a war from happening, and Winterfell still stands.”

Sansa laughs, bitterly. Knowing, or even thinking, that the Gods thought her capable of living a second life was less of a boon and more of a burden. “I don’t know if we truly stopped the war, or just postponed it by a year.”

“Nevertheless, it did not happen as it did before.” Mother says softly. “You must take the positives where they come, whether they are the best news, or just a little better than the bad.”

“That is a cynical thought.” Sansa says, laughing through her tears. She had always thought her Mother to be more optimistic than that. “I do not know how much more bad I can take.”

“As much as you will need to.” Mother tells her firmly. “I have all the faith in the world you will be able to take it and so much more.”

 

+

 

“Sorry, what?” Sansa asks, looking up, startled, as someone taps her on her shoulder. She has been looking across the room, where Bran and Jojen are sitting together and talking quietly.

Meera laughs. “Can you pass me some red thread?” She asks again. “Where was your mind?”

“Oh, excuse me.” Sansa shakes her head, passing the small loom of thread on to Meera. “I don’t know what I was thinking actually.” She gives a small laugh. “I was simply not paying attention. I apologize.”

“Oh, there is no need to apologize.” Meera says with a warm smile. “If a lady cannot stop thinking during sewing what other time can she?”

Sansa laughs. “That is true.” She looks down at the stitching in her hands. “I believe my hands could stitch anything by this point.”

Meera raises her embroidery and grimaces. “I can’t.” She says dryly. “But I like to stop thinking nevertheless.”

Sansa laughs. “Your embroidery is lovely, my dear. What are you making at the moment?”

Meera shows her the outline of a wolf, filled with auburn thread the shade of Robb’s hair, that sits before a landscape of blue rivers and green swamp. “For the babe. A wolf for House Stark, a river for House Tully and the swamp for House Reed.”

“It is wonderful, Meera.” Sansa says, completely honestly. “The red is the exact shade of Robb’s hair.” The smile Meera sends Robb is very fond, so loving it warms Sansa’s heart. She is glad the two are so happy with each other. “I am very happy for you, my dear. When is the babe due?”

Meera smiles shyly. “Maester Luwin believes she will be born by the end of the year.”

“She?” Sansa asks, thrilled.

“I have a feeling.” Meera says with a small smile. “I would very much like to have an heir but I think it will be a girl.”

“It will be a boy.” Robb suddenly stands behind them, leaning down to kiss Meera on the cheek. “While my darling wife may be perfect in every other way, she is wrong about the babe. It will be a boy.”

Sansa smiles at the two of them. They look handsome together, very much so, and the babe will be so lovely. “Whatever baby is, they will be loved.”

“She will be.” Meera says, the same instant as Robb says: “He will be.”

Sansa can only laugh.

“What do you think, sister dearest?” Robb asks, with a teasing smile.

“As it is your name day, brother mine, I will keep myself out of this discussion.”

“You, sister love, are a coward.”

“I simply wish to keep the peace, lord brother.”

“Goodness gracious, beautiful sister.”

 

+

 

_To the Starks, my family in Winterfell, from Lord Eddard Stark:_

I hope you are all together by the time this raven reaches our halls. I hope you are breaking your fast together, with the new addition to our family, and with old returned home. Here, I wish everyday I was home with you all, but alas I am not. I miss you all dearly every day and I cannot wait to go back home again.

Here in the south, war has officially begun. The Lannisters are in rebellion against the crown. It was not Tywin Lannister, who declared war on the rest of the Kingdom, but rather the young man and former Prince. He had a young lady from the Reach, of an extended branch of the Tyrells, kidnapped and had himself crowd King. Stannis could not do anything but declare war against the pretender, for the protection of the crown. Lord Lannister declared war in response. I am sorry this unfortunate news has come. My wife is now also the daughter of the temporary Warden of the West. Stannis will make further decisions after the war. I would ask you all not to worry too much. The Lannisters only have control over a small part of Westeros. The other 6 Kingdoms will rise and stop the pretender King.

In other news, all the Tyrells have left the city. I suspect they know King Stannis will not have forgotten the siege of Storm’s End during the rebellion. They have left and while the Keep is missing the touch of a Queen, young Princess Shireen is doing her utmost best to fulfill the role. Should King Stannis not have another son, she will make a formidable Queen. She will need to marry a proper Lord to ensure the support of the nobles, but she is young yet – only of an age with Bran.

I eagerly await all news of you all, **Eddard Stark**.

 

+

 

All the fear Mother, Robb, Jon and all the others had attempted to talk Sansa out of comes rushing back when she reads Father’s letter. She is still the one to break the news to Myrcella and Tommen. Gently.

“It is not a true surprise.” She tells them softly. “Your Lord Grandfather and Lady Mother knew that King Stannis would never allow the insult against King Robert to stand. The aggression is surely coming from your brother’s side, I am afraid, but a war we could have predicted.”

Myrcella is the first to speak, deathly pale. “What will happen to us now?” She has never looked at Sansa with as much fear as she does in that moment.

Tommen too looks suddenly afraid, as if he had not even thought about the possibility.

Sansa sighs. “I will not lie to you. For us, there is a hope that you two being with us will stop your mother and brother from doing horrible things. But we will never punish you for things they do. I swear it. We are not cruel. I understand if you don’t trust us right now, but I swear to you, no one here at Winterfell will ever hurt you for something your brother or any of your family does.”

“May I write a letter? To mother?” Myrcella asks. Her tone is combative.

“You may. We will read what you write, to ensure you do not relay any secrets you might have overheard, but you may.”

It is sad, Sansa thinks, that Myrcella has lost all trust she once had in Sansa, but she also understands. While they had not ever been as cruel to the two as the Lannister had once been to her, Myrcella and Tommen were essentially in the same position as she had once been.

“When will I go to the wall?” Tommen asks, quietly. He looks afraid.

Sansa hopes her smile is not as broken as she feels. “Not for now. The King has decided that you will stay at Winterfell until further notice.”

“Until you have won the war against Mama and Joff, you mean. So, we are both leverage.” Myrcella says, her tone unimpressed. She is a very clever girl, Sansa thinks not for the first time. Myrcella has the brains of her uncle Tyrion and the beauty of Cersei. If not for the unfortunate circumstances of her parentage, she would have made someone a formidable wife.

“Yes.” Sansa admits to it. “And you can rest assured Myrcella that your family would have the same. But I can promise you that no matter what happens, you both will never be harmed.”

“We’ll see about that when Joff wins battles against you and the stupid king.”

 

+

 

_To all noble houses of Westeros:_

The rightful Heir to the Throne of King Robert Baratheon the first of his name is Joffrey Baratheon, the first of his name, son of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister, King of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoyne, Protector of the Realm. He denies the claim of the vile pretender Stannis Baratheon, who usurps the rights of King Joffrey Baratheon.

The rightful King will reclaim the throne from the pretender Stannis.

**Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name.**

 

+

 

Sansa watches from the balcony as Bran attempts to train. Jojen stands by his side, functioning as Bran’s eyes. He warns Bran of coming hits, delivered gently by Jon, who is blindfolded with Robb functioning as his eyes. Sansa watches as Bran parries the hits, slowly, but he does parry it. A smile spreads across Bran’s face and Robb cheers.

“Quicker!” Theon shouts down, from the spot on the balcony not far from her, and when he notices her looking at him, a smile passes over his face. “Are you enjoying the spectacle, Lady Sansa?”

They have not spoken much since she returned from the south, without any particular design from Sansa, but Theon and her seem to be in different parts of the castle at all times but dinner.

“Enjoying might be the wrong expression, Lord Theon.” She says honestly. “I have difficulties enjoying something that may decide my dear brother’s livelihood.”

“He’ll get his sight back.” Theon says, fiercely. When she looks over at him, he stares down at Bran with a peculiar expression on his face. He looks almost sad in a way. “He has to.”

“Bran will make do with anything the Gods deem his able to.” Sansa says softly. “If his sight stays gone, he will be as successful in life as he would have been with. We must have faith in that.”

Theon turns to her. “We must have faith.” He echoes. “I do believe you were less religious when you went south.”

Sansa chuckles, entirely without humor. “There is a lot in the south, Lord Theon, to make one religious.”

“Some would think it might make one less religious.” There is an edge to Theon’s voice. “Were there any Greyjoy’s at the coronation?”

Sansa starts. “None that were introduced to me, nor that wore the colors.” She says honestly. “I do not believe so, Theon.”

He nods, as if he had expected nothing else, but a small shadow of a smile passes his face for just a second. “Better to stay out of the pit, isn’t it?”

It is, Sansa thinks. “Theon …” She pauses, trying to find the proper words to ask. “Theon, do you remember when you first came here? What could we all have done to make you feel more comfortable.”

Theon had not expected the question, Sansa can tell. He flinches, looking at her with wide eyes for a moment, before he gets his expression under control again. “Are asking because of the Waters.”

“Aye. Myrcella is angry.”

“And I don’t blame her.” Theon says. “Her entire life was ripped away from her in a few weeks and now she is in an unknown land, with unknown people.”

“I don’t blame her either.” Sansa says, softly. “But I would also like it if they feel more comfortable here.”

 “Sansa.” Theon looks and sounds so incredulous, she winces. “They are hostages. They will never feel comfortable here. To think that is incredibly naïve, Sansa.”

“I don’t mean-“ Sansa sighs. “You are right, Theon.”

“Of course, I am right.” Theon says, reverting back to the cocky man he is at times. Sansa still wonders how much of that is a shield against all of them.

“So, are you still so uncomfortable with us?” Sansa asks. It is a cruel question, Sansa gets that, but she needs to know. She still needs to know how likely it is that Theon will betray them all for his true father.

Theon’s expression shuts down. “I am also a hostage, Sansa. And I will admit you have been kinder to me than others would have been, I am still a hostage. It is difficult to forget that.”

Sansa looks down. “I am sorry, Theon.” She sighs, and then adds: “I didn’t mean to … You are a brother to me, do you know that?”

Theon looks at her. “I think I do. But Sansa.”

“I know. That doesn’t change a thing.” Sansa says, interrupting him. Even if Theon does not know. Sansa is probably the only one of the Starks who can empathize. When Tyrion had been kind to her, before, she still had not thought of him as family. Of course, Theon and Sansa’s situation were different, but she could at least understand how it was to be a hostage.

She startles, when Theon gently touches her upper arm. “I do love all of you.” Theon says, suddenly startlingly honest in a way he had never been before. “But I also cannot forget what you are to me. What I am to you.”

“Alright.” Sansa says quietly.

They look at each other for a moment, before Theon takes his hand away and then he chuckles. “Look, Bran has defeated Jon.”

Sansa looks down at the training yard. Jon, no longer blindfolded, is staring up at the two of them, an unreadable expression on his frowning face, and he does not even seem to care that Bran is celebrating his win with Jojen and Robb to the side. Sansa catches his eyes and smiles, but Jon’s expression falls, and he turns away.

 

+

 

_To House Stark, from the Iron Throne:_

House Lannister has acted in high treason against the Crown and the Realm. They are hereby stripped of all titles and claims connected to the lands awarded to them by the crown and the realm. 

The Warden of the West will henceforth, and temporarily, be Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun and the Riverlands, until King Stannis the first of his name or his rightful heir Princess Shireen Baratheon decree otherwise.

So signs, **King Stannis Baratheon the first of his name. King of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoyne. Protector of the Realm.**

 

+

 

Bran must sense her, as he stops long before his cloaked companion can spot her. He turns and says, in a very soft and guilt-ridden voice: “Sansa.” She does know how he knows she is there.

“Brandon.” She says, not hiding the anger in her tone.

He winces but turns towards the sound of her voice. One hand is clenched in Summer’s fur and the wolf looks at her with big, steady eyes. “Are you here to stop me?”

“No.”

“I need to leave, Sansa. You cannot stop me, for if you do we will all die. I cannot – wait, did you say no?”

Sansa sighs. “I know.”

“Know what?” Bran’s companion asks.

Sansa suddenly recognizes him as Jojen Reed. Her jaw clenches. “Jojen.” Her tone is frosty. “I trust you will never leave my brother out of your sight.”

“I will not.” Jojen Reed says carefully. “I swear it to the Old Gods and the New.”

“Do the New Gods even exist?” Sansa asks ponderingly. “The Old Gods have proven their existence, as has R’hllor.”

“Is this the time for a religious debate?” Jojen Reed asks.

“No. Perhaps it is not.” Sansa acknowledges. “So, you cannot stay here, Bran?”

“No.” Bran says weakly. “The thousand-eyed crow says the world will fall if I do not go beyond the wall.”

“Take it as a compliment that he needs to leave, Lady Sansa.” Jojen Reed says. “For in this timeline there is no way Bran will be forced to leave Winterfell. You have done well in changing the timeline, but Bran must go north to fulfill his destiny.”

Sansa’s sense of outrage is only stumped by her annoyance. “That does not actually make me feel better about letting my baby brother leave for the land beyond the wall, Lord Reed.”

“Of course not.” Jojen Reed says. His tone is barely sympathetic. “But Bran needs to go north.”

“I know.” Sansa says softly.

“So, you will not force me to stay?” Bran asks.

Sansa shakes her head. “No.” She steps closer and gently puts a hand on Bran’s shoulder. He flinches and turns his face towards her. Now, she can almost think he can see her, but the way his eyes do not focus on her belie the hope. “But Bran, I will ask you. Are you certain?”

Her baby brother, sweet and only 8 years old, nods. “Sansa. I have seen what you have changed. The things that might still happen and what did happen, and in all of it I need to be in the North. I need to learn more.”

Sansa closes her eyes and shakes her head, filled with an abstract grief so deep it nearly fells her. “I wanted to all to be able to stay home.”

“And you did admirably, Lady Sansa.” Jojen Reed says.

“Shut up.” She says, harshly. Perhaps Jojen doesn’t deserve it, he hasn’t actually done anything to her ire, but she cannot stand the sight of him then. “Bran, take care of yourself. And when you can, try and speak to us.”

 “I will.” Bran whispers.  

Sansa leans down and kisses his head gently. “Alright then. I will miss you, baby brother.”

“I am sorry Sansa. Can you tell Mother I love her?” Bran’s voice is weak, and Sansa runs a finger along his cheekbone to calm him. He leans into her hand and Sansa smiles sadly. She prays she will see her baby brother again. There is something in her heart that tells her it will be a long time indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one was a long one and a lot happened. 
> 
> 1\. I hate the magic-disabled trope that seems to be so heavy with Bran, but I decided it to keep it (change it, but keep it) because I think Bran would never embrace his magic!storyline without something to stop him from becoming a knight or whatever else he wants to be. 
> 
> 2\. Bran needed to leave for the North, because otherwise they will all die. I tend to forget the Magic!Storyline, but it is essential to the whole universe.
> 
> 3\. Sansa is not clever in the ways of the heart ;)


	21. Winterfell/Weepriver - 299, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Problems and Solutions.

Mother hasn’t washed her hair in a week, sitting in Bran’s bedchamber not tearing her gaze away from his bed as if expecting he will suddenly return. She doesn’t even want to see Minnie and so they are forced to get wet nurse.

They all take turns sitting by Mother’s side, either filling the silence or letting it stand, but there is no indication that Mother even registers they are there. Sansa’s guilt is bone deep as she sits by Mother’s side, also in silence. She has not told anyone she let Bran leave, not even Jon who would probably understand. It was the right thing, Sansa knows it, and even if she had stopped Bran that night he would have found another way, but the guilt still lies heavily in her heart.

She looks up when Robb enters the room, carrying Minnie is arms.

“Mama.” Sansa says softly. “Do you want to see Minnie?”

She does not move, not looking away from Bran’s bed and not appearing as if she had heard Sansa either. Sansa sighs, looking back at Robb, who looks entirely out of his depth and so sad. “Robb. Can you get Arya with her? I want to talk to you.”

“Meera is outside, can she?”

“Yes.” Sansa says immediately. “I don’t really – I just do not want her to be alone.”

“Of course.” Robb says. He steps out and Meera steps in only a few moments later.

Meera kisses Sansa on the cheek. “Go on. I’ll be in here until you return.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Sansa rubs a hand over her eyes. “I apologize for this.”

“Sansa, you are my family now. And my brother is gone too.”

They look at each other then and Sansa suddenly knows that Meera knows just as well as she does where the two went. “Of course.” Sansa says softly, before stepping out by Robb’s side.

Robb turns to look at her and Sansa runs a hand over her face again. “Can we go to your solar?”

“Of course.” Robb says gently.

They walk down the hall in silence, only Minnie makes happy sounds sometimes, and Sansa wonders what she will tell her brother until they enter the solar and take a seat before the fire.

“I let Bran leave.” She says, not even waiting for Robb to say anything. “I let him and Jojen leave. They are on their way north and Bran needed to go because otherwise we would never win the war against the Others. It is essential.”

Robb stays quiet for a moment. “I know.” He says finally. Her head snaps up to stare at him, and he smiles sadly when he notices. “Meera told me.”

Sansa nods. “Jojen told her?”

“She helped go.”

“As I did.” Sansa says. She chuckles, completely without humor and falls back against the sofa. “Gods damn it. I hate this so much. I never expected Mama to … it was stupid. Of course, she would be horrified when Bran left. Why didn’t I think of it?”

“She would have never let Bran leave.” Robb says. By the tone in his voice, he would not have either, but Robb luckily does not seem very angry at Sansa, which sooths her guilt just a little. “And Mother just needs some time.”

“Can I have Minnie?” Sansa asks quietly. She is glad when Robb passes her the baby, and the weight anchors Sansa to the present. Minnie makes happy sounds when she looks up at Sansa, probably think she is Mother, and Sansa looks down at the peaceful little face. Minnie, thankfully, does not seem to notice much of the grief in the castle, just as happy as she was before Bran left. “I can take her for a bit, if you and Meera want a break.”

“It is good practice, actually.” Robb says, a small smile on his face. “You can take if you want, but we are happy to keep her.”

Sansa nods. “Have you received any word from the south?”

By the expression on Robb’s face he had. “Father sent a letter. He does not know about Bran yet.”

“What did it say?”

“Renly Baratheon has married Margaery Tyrell and crowned himself King.” Robb says, and his tone tells Sansa everything about what he thinks about the infighting of the South. “Father wrote that Renly is backed by many of the Stormlords.”

“Of course, he is.” Sansa sighs, shaking her head. She curses Margaery and the Tyrells for their _stupidity_. What a harebrained scheme, Sansa thinks, Stannis would never forgive them for it.  “What does Stannis say?”

“Father didn’t say. I expect we can expect another letter from the Crown soon.” Robb looks older than his years. “Father also said we should prepare calling the banners. Stannis will be asking for our help in the war any day now.”

“Why hasn’t he yet?” Sansa asks.

Robb shrugs. “I think Stannis expects to win the war quickly and it would take close to two months before we can even reach Riverrun with an army.”

“And if Stannis asks for aid he admits he think the war will take long.”

“Aye.” Robb says quietly. “Also, I believe Father has talked him out of it.”

“Good.” Sansa says, harshly. She does not want any men of the north to die for a pointless war in the south.

Robb smiles at that. “Good indeed, my sister.” He pauses. “There is another matter. A raven came from our justice at the Dreadfort. Apparently, there are some issues between the local population and the settlement of the free folk.”

“The Dreadfort?” Sansa asks. Fittingly, dread spreads in her mind. “What did they write?”

“A young girl of the Masterly House Weepriver has been killed.” Robb looks incredibly tired. His jaw clenches. “It is uncertain who the murderer is, but she was found close by a wildling settlement and both locals are pointing finger at each other.”

Sansa grimaces. That does not bode well. “Is there any evidence or a witness perhaps?”

Robb shakes his head. “Nothing the justice has written about.” He sighs and shakes his head. “This whole thing is a mess. I know why we took in the free folk, but we did not think this through.”

Sansa frowns. “What do you mean?”

Robb looks at her and suddenly the circles under his eyes seem more pronounced. “The wheat coffers are already stretched thin and winter has not even properly started yet. There are reports of scrimmages between both locals all along the North and I am fielding letters from the lords. They all signed the agreement, so none have outright threatened anything, but I can tell that they think I am a stupid child. Gods, Father should have never left for the south. He should have been here to smooth over things with the lords. How could we think that this would not be accompanied by any problems!”

Sansa looks at Robb, almost stunned. Robb falls back against his chair, and sighs heavily, rubbing his hands over his face. “I apologize, Sansa. I am tired.”

Sansa nods. “There is nothing to apologize for.” She says softly. “Robb, you must let me help you. Until Father is back at the very least.”

“There is not much to do.” Robb admits. “Most of what I do is read letters and wait for more.” He gets up, rather suddenly. “Come look at this.”

Sansa stands and walks over to the big map that is spread in the corner of the room and stacked with small figurines. “Is this a war map?” She asks, looking up at Robb. “I don’t know anything of war or battle strategy.”

“From what Jon told me you know the south and how they play the game of thrones.” Robb says. “I am figuring Lord Lannister, Renly Baratheon and Stannis Baratheon are the three big players. Is there anyone else I need to figure into this?”

Sansa looks down at the map. A small lion stands above Casterly Rock, a stag above Storm’s End and the crown above King’s Landing. A stag stands above Highgarden as well, and a crown is set over all the other kingdoms.

“I am not certain all the Tyrells are with Renly.” Sansa says softly. “I would wager this was Loras and Margaery’s harebrained plot.”

Robb hums. “As far as Father wrote, they have all proclaimed for Renly.”

She nods. “Alright.” She fingers the crown in King’s Landing. “I am sure Aegon and Dany will use this war de-stabling the Crown to start their own campaign.”

“Right.” Robb takes a rather nondescript rock and places it on the sea by King’s Landing. “Aegon Targaryen, because he is still alive.”

“And Jon’s brother by blood.” Sansa says in a similarly sarcastic tone as Robb. “Though we never learned if he was truly a Targaryen by blood or a ploy by Varys.”

“What happened to him? I don’t believe Jon ever told me.”

Sansa shrugs, uncomfortably. “We never met him. His camp was infected with grayscale and he died horrifically, by all accounts. He never actually took more of Westeros than Storm’s End.”

Robb winces. “And Daenerys?”

“She has a child now.” Sansa says with quiet wonder, still not quite able to imagine what could have changed so drastically that Dany was able to have a child. “I do not know what that does to a woman. Either it brings her to Westeros much swifter, or she will wait until the babe is older.” She pauses. “You best ask Jon about her. He knew her better than I did.”

“I did.” Robb says. He grimaces. “He did not say much in any way.”

Sansa pauses, thinks, and nods. “Well, I would think she will come to Westeros sooner. If she still has her dragons. Dany is convinced the crown is her birthright and will be even more convinced of it if she has a child.” She looks down at the map again. “I could not tell you however how her campaign will go. We were too preoccupied with the Others to truly pay attention to how Dany took the south.”

“Dealing with uncertainties is never a good idea anyways.” Robb says firmly. “As long as Father makes it out of the South in one piece …” He trails off.

“Aye.” Sansa says softly. She looks at the map again. A piece in the North catches her attention and she rubs at the small inked mark by the stony shore. “What is this for?”

She is not prepared for Robb’s flush. “Nothing really.” He says, face still bright red. “I was thinking about trade routes and thought it would be brilliant if we had a proper trading port at the western shore.”

“To break the Manderly’s monopoly on shipping trade?” Sansa asks. It is not a bad idea.

“Also, to open up quicker shipping routes to the Reach and the other Kingdoms of the West.” Robb says. He steps closer and traces a line from the White Knife to the Big Lake by Torrhen’s Square. “We should also build a canal to link the eastern and western shore by ships. It would make trade within the north much easier. Also, I would like to rebuild Moat Cailin. There is a reason it was once the most formidable fortress in the whole of Westeros. Our forebears should have never let it fall into disarray.”

Sansa looks at her brother, with a small smile. “Do we have the funds for projects like these?”

“We do, but it is too close to winter to start any of them.” Robb deflates slightly. “Maester Luwin says it is a worthy project for after the winter.”

“And after the war.” Sansa adds. “But these are very good ideas, Robb.”

Robb flashes her a brilliant smile. “I know.”

 

 

+

 

Jon laughs, a soft startled bark that fades back into the chatter around them quickly. He looks over at her and leans down to whisper in her ear: “Don’t let either hear you say that.” He says, looking over at the two men who are still glaring at each other.

“Oh, you believe Vayon would not be much pleased about the comparison?” Sansa asks, with a grin.

“No. Nor would Lord Poole.” Jon clears his throat and approaches the two men. “What seems to be the problem?”

“As Lord Poole,” Vayon the Free Man spits, glaring at Lord Poole, “has already said, we are experiencing a few problems with Border Street.”

“Experiencing a few problems.” Lord Poole repeats, mockingly. Sansa is shocked at his bad manners, especially since he is talking to the children of his liege lord. Lord Poole is usually nothing but well-mannered. “There is a thief running rampant among your _people_ ,” the way he says it does not sounds like Lord Poole means people, but rather something more wild, “and it are my people-“

Sansa steps closer and affects the sweetest voice she can manage. “Is there any way we could visit the Border Street now? I have been gone from Winterfell for so long and I would very much like to see what has changed in my home.”

She can see the moment Lord Poole realizes he has forget himself and his audience. There is a faint flush on the tops of his cheeks and he steps away from Vayon and turns to face her. “My lady, I apologize for my behavior.”

Sansa smiles and says, sweetly: “There is not a thing to apologize for, good ser.”

“Then let’s go to Border Street.” Vayon says.

“Have some respect. This is the daughter of the-“ Lord Poole bristles.

Sansa smiles. “Peace, Lord Poole.” She steps forward and turns towards the man of the free folk. “Would you show me?”

The man mumbles something Sansa does not understand, but he steps into sync with Sansa and she walks beside him in quiet as they make their way out of Winterfell. Lord Poole and Jon walk behind them, and Sansa carefully clasps her hands together.

“From which region beyond the wall do you hail, Vayon?” Sansa asks when the silence gets louder with every passing moment.

“Region?” Vayon asks.

Sansa winces at his tone. “Do you not have regions?” She asks. “I was told that there are groups among the free folk just as there are amongst us,” she thinks for the proper word, “kneelers.”

He looks over at her, with some measure of amusement. “Aye, there are.” He says. Then, after another moment he adds: “I was born in the Haunted Forest.”

“Close to the wall?”

“I suppose.” His answer is short. He looks down at her and adds, with a long-suffering sigh: “My grandfather was a crow. It was him who taught me letters and the customs of you all.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Do I miss what?”

“Your home, I suppose.”

“Of course.”

“I pray you are able to return one day, if you so wish.”

There is silence. Sansa wonders if she has said the wrong thing, when Vayon looks down at her and nods. “Thank you, my lady. As do I.”

There is an air of departure to the Freetown still. Many of the tents are still only half-built and the entire area looks more like a camp than a proper town. It is odd, but Sansa get the feeling that many of the men and women still hope to be able to go home as soon as possible. She can empathize with that feeling, but she also cannot help but feel it will be contra productive to any kind of integration.

They are watched from the moment they step out of the castle into the town, but no one approaches them as they make their way through the town. Vayon has warmed to her a little, Sansa thinks, as he points out a few of the more important areas, but all in all they hurry through the town.

She notices the moment they reach the border street. It is a cobbled street and the two sides are wildly different. On the side of the free folk tents line the street and on the other side buildings made of stone and wood stand. The street itself is bustling. On the street, Sansa can barely tell if a person is smallfolk or free folk, as they merge and talk and do their business.

They make their way up the street, grabbing the attention of many people along the street. Their destination is a small stand by the entrance of an Inn called the Three Wolves Inn. It is not a particularly creative name. Most of the Inns in Winter’s Town are named after wolves in some form or fashion.

A burly man looks up from behind the stand as they approach. As they approach, Sansa knows immediately that this is a Free Folk. He has lines of ink tattooed into the skin of his face and a small bone hanging from each earlobe.

“ _Vayon. What is this?_ ” The man growls in the Old Tongue. Sansa knows enough of the language by now to understand him.

“Haarkon, this is Poole, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark.” Vayon introduces them all. “We are here about the missing goods.”

Sansa looks down at the stand, and the goods that lie on the furs. Haarkon sells jewelry, crude but pretty jewelry that is fashioned from metal and leather. She is not sure why he sells his goods before an Inn, but who is she to judge the man.

“Have you found the thief?” Haarkon snarls. “Fucking thieves here are destroying our livelihoods. How are we supposed to make a living when things are always stolen from our stands?”

Sansa looks up, and at Jon, who looks troubled. “Have you seen anyone?” He asks, tracing one of the metal bands with a finger.

Haarkon huffs. “Not more than a hooded figure. Fucker stole the last iron dagger I made. Could have gotten a good deal for it.”

Lord Poole shifts behind her. “There have been reports of thieving from the smallfolk as well, Lord Jon.” He says. “And no one has seen more than a cloaked figure.”

Jon shifts and sighs. “Unfortunately, there is little to do until someone is caught red-handed.” He looks up. “Thank you for your time, Haarkon. Vayon, can you show us to the sinking ground?”

Vayon looks back at Jon for a moment and nods. “Aye.”

Sansa tears her gaze away from the jewelry on Haarkon’s stand and turns to follow the men away, when Haarkon’s voice stops her. “A present for the little lady.” He says, holding out a small pendant on a leather band. “Take it, girl.”

Sansa smiles, remembering her manners. “Thank you, good ser. I will treasure it.”

Haarkon doesn’t smile or move anymore than a swift nod. Sansa looks down at the pendant and traces it with a finger. It is the one she had been eyeing, a small round pendant with the metal worked into a complicated knot. Sansa wonders if there is any significance to the knot itself or if it is just metalwork, but she slips the necklace over her head, letting it rest beside the dragonfly pendant she always wears.

 

+

 

“I wish to go to Essos.” Jon says, after a long moment of pause.

Sansa chokes on her food, and she can see Robb do the same. They are taking their dinner in Robb’s solar, the three eldest of them, and Sansa knows Jon has been thinking of it for a long time considering the timing of his announcement.

“Pardon me?” Robb says.

“I think I should go look for Daenerys.” Jon looks steadfastly at Robb and Sansa both. “I have thought about it for a long time and I believe it would be the right thing to do. We need to know if the dragons are … alive.”

“But Jon, she would kill you on sight!” Sansa protests. Her heart is truthfully racing, and she pushes her plate away with a sick feeling to her stomach. “Do you remember how she reacted to us the first time we met? She hates the Starks.”

Jon swallows. “I don’t believe she would recognize me. Jorah Mormont is dead, Ser Barristan is still in King’s Landing and I don’t believe there will be any other man from Westeros in her circle. She won’t be able to tell I look like a Stark.”

“No!” Sansa explains, surprised at the vehemence in her voice. “You can’t go to Essos. Dany was never stable! How would even get her confidence?”

“I don’t need to get her confidence.” Jon says, calmly. “I just need to see if there are dragons. Sansa, you know as well as I do that the dragons are imperative for the coming war.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to leave for fucking Essos!”

Jon visibly starts at the curse leaving Sansa’s lips. “I know you don’t want any of to leave Winterfell, but Sansa … we must prepare for the war. Why else would the gods have sent us back? If we are here, with what we know, we need to use that knowledge. And I know Dany. I know who she is, and I am certain she will listen to reason.”

“Reason?” Sansa laughs, bitterly. “Daenerys cares for nothing but the throne. She won’t abandon her plans to cross the Narrow Sea, just because you tell her there are magical creatures no one has seen in millennia coming to Westeros to kill us all. She has been told all her life that she is the rightful queen of a land she has never set foot in. She has no idea what Westeros is like, why do you think she would ever come to save us.”

“She did last time.” Jon is angry at her, she can read it in the harsh lines on his face. “She did help us.”

“Only after the wall had already fallen and the dead were rising in King’s Landing. Do you really think a girl raised in eternal summer will fear the cold of winter?” Sansa shakes her head. “I liked Daenerys, you know I did, but I don’t you going to visit her is going to help. You are only going to get yourself killed.”

“Dany wouldn’t kill me.” Jon rolls his eyes. “Why would she?”

“Maybe because you are the bastard of the man she perceives to be the reason her family is no longer on the throne.” Sansa says. “What happens the moment she realizes you are a Stark. You really think she wouldn’t have you killed on the spot?”

“I am also a Targaryen, Sansa.” Jon reminds her softly. “I could always tell her.”

Sansa laughs, bitterly. “Jon. That would only make her kill you quicker. Do you really think she would let the threat of you maybe taking the throne from her stand? Her brother is dead, there is literally nothing standing in her way but you. Now she has a babe, she won’t even flinch. There is nothing a mother would not do for her child.”

“And you would know.” Jon says shortly. “Because you know everything, don’t you Sansa.” He looks as though he is only moments from throwing his plate at her. She can empathize.

She looks at him for a moment. “I don’t know everything, Jon. But between the two of us, there is only one woman. Or is there something you wish to tell us.”

“And women all think the same, do they?”

“We don’t think like men.” Her voice is softer now. “Daenerys is a mother. She will do anything in her power to see her child on the throne and will see any threat to him eliminated. And that would include you, Jon.”

Jon’s jaw clenches. “I wouldn’t approach her.” He says after a moment. Sansa takes it to mean that she has won this particular debate. “But we need more information about her.”

“I think it is a good idea.” Robb interjects. Sansa had forgotten he is also in the room. He is looking at the both of them with wide eyes, as if startled to see them fighting. They have always fought, it should not be a surprise to him. “But I agree with Sansa too. Perhaps we should send Theon.”

“NO!” Jon echoes Sansa’s voice, and Robb looks at the both of them in surprise.

“No, you cannot.” Sansa says gently. “Theon must stay by your side, Robb. He loves you more than any of us and you must-“

Robb sighs, shaking his head. “I wish you two would tell me what he did in your life.”

“Nothing that could happen again in this.” Jon says. “But-“

“It does not the fact that Theon must be kept close.”

Robb nods. “Then I think Jon should go.”

Sansa shakes her head. “It’s a stupid idea.”

“It isn’t.”

“It really is.”

 

+

 

Everyone notices Jon and Sansa have fought, even Mother, who is slowly coming out of her paralysis. Arya tells her to fix it angrily, which frustrates Sansa to no end. Who says she is the one who has to apologize? She had only told him the bitter truth.

Jon makes arrangements to leave for White Harbor, where a boat will take him to Braavos. Sansa still hopes he will change his mind, but as the day of his departure approaches with great leaps, she realizes that Jon is dead set on this.

The day before Jon’s departure, she is sitting in Robb’s solar, helping him with the books. They both work in silence when there is a knock on the door. Maester Luwin enters, holding a letter.

“My lord.” He hands the letter to Robb and backs out of the room again. Sansa doesn’t pay him much attention, still trying to find the small discrepancies in her maths. Robb sighs heavily as he reads the letter. Sansa looks up from her own work in alarm and doesn’t even have to ask before Robb hands her the letter.

 

_To Lord Robb Stark, from Justice Pat Bolton:_

As your appointed Justice in the lands of the Bolton Family, I ask for House Starks wisdom in the handling of the death of young Evelyn Weepriver.

If I may remind you, the daughter of Master Weepriver was found by the side of the river, bound and strangled. My preliminary investigation discovered people had seen her with a wildling the day before. The wildlings are not cooperating – they refuse to tell me who the man is and have closed ranks. Clearly, this is guilty behavior. Master Weepriver is calling for justice for his daughter’s life and according to the law, the murderer must be punished. Unfortunately, it is not possible to ascertain who exactly killed her.

I am at a loss as how to advance with this issue. **Justice Pat Bolton.**

 

Sansa winces as she looks up. She does not like the tone of the letter, and if these are the sort of letters Robb has been fielding since Father left for the south, she suddenly understands the deep circles underneath his eyes.

“How will you respond?” She asks, gently.

Robb shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet. We cannot punish an entire settlement for shielding a murderer, but we cannot let a murderer go free.”

Sansa bites her lip. “If I may-“

“Of course, Sansa.” Robb says, as Sansa pauses.

“Send someone from our family to Weepriver.” Sansa says slowly. “We must show presence, without intruding on the Ser Justices authority.”

Robb nods. “Aye, I was thinking something similar.” He pauses. “Would you be able to leave any time soon?”

Sansa blanches. “Me?” She asks. “But I am-“

“Think of it, Sans.” Robb says. “Jon is leaving for White Harbor in the morrow, I cannot leave, Mother is not in any capacity and Arya and Rickon are far too young.”

“Theon could-“

Robb laughs, startling Sansa. “The Boltons would fume at the mouth. Besides, are you not the one to tell me he must stay here at Winterfell.” He says, shaking his head. “I know you don’t wish to leave Sansa, but there-“

“I understand.” Sansa sighs. “I suppose I could be ready to leave by tomorrow morning.”

Robb raises an eyebrow. “You may take longer if you wish. There are arrangements to be made.”

Sansa shakes her head immediately. “It will be a good fortnights journey to the Dreadfort. I do not wish to delay anymore than necessary.” She stands, smoothing her dress down. “Please inform Jon that I will accompany him on part of his journey. I will take Jenny Umber and Dorris with me.”

Robb’s face sours. “You should take more guards.”

“I will take whomever you find appropriate, Robb.” Sansa says. “But I find it prudent to move swiftly and without much delay.”

“I’ll make the arrangements.”

 

+

 

They ride off at first dawn. The frost of the night still clings to the ground as the horses move on the frozen ground. Sansa has packed little, not much more than a few dresses and furs. She does not plan to spend longer than a few days in Weepriver. There is no need for her to stay much longer.

It is not even noon when they reach the King’s Road and Jon looks conflicted as they make preparations to split. Jon and his men will ride down south, to White Harbor where he will board a ship bound for Essos, and Sansa will continue on towards Hornwood.

“Jon, you must be careful.” She tells him, far off from the others. At his expression, she quickly adds: “I don’t mean to fight. I am sorry about before. I know you love Daenerys, but please don’t forget that this is a different Daenerys than the one you – the one we knew.”

“I won’t forget, Sansa.”

“Good.” Sansa smiles at him. “I’ve got something for you.” Jon takes the small packet from her with apprehension. “Go on, open it.”

Jon opens it slowly. “Sansa-“ He says, breathless. “I couldn’t-“

“See it as a token.” Sansa tells him. “You cannot wear a wolf in Essos, not without revealing who you are, but its something to remind you of home.”

Jon takes the amulet out of the handkerchief and holds it up against the light. She had commissioned it the days after their argument, at the same stand Jon and her had visited just weeks earlier. It is intricate and beautiful all the same, the dark metal twisted into the shape of a laughing weirwood tree. No one would recognize it in Essos, but Jon, it would hopefully remind of home. “Thank you, Sansa.” There is a small smile on his lips. “I have something for you as well.”

He reaches back into his pack and pulls out a sheathed dagger. “I would have given it to you at Winterfell if you hadn’t come along.”

Sansa takes the dagger out and runs a finger across it. It is a fine blade, made from obsidian, and the sheath has a weirwood stitched into the leather. “Thank you, Jon.”

“I know you are capable of wielding it, and it is small to be hidden from view if you need to play the proper lady.” Jon tells her.

“I am a proper lady.”

“I know. But I feel more comfortable if I know you are at least able to protect yourself.” Jon’s smile is warm and kind and Sansa wonders why they had held up their icy silence for so long.

“I’ll miss you.” Sansa says, the words slipping from her tongue.

Jon smiles. “I’ll miss you too.”

They leave it at that, riding back to the group together. No one says anything as Jon assembles his men, a mix of men from the north and of the free folk with whom he will travel to Essos and rides off. Sansa waits and watches them ride down the King’s Road until they are almost too small to see with the naked eye. It is only then that she turns to her own people. “Let’s ride. We must make the most of the daylight.”

 

+

 

The man standing by the gate to the settlement bows when she is helped from her horse. “Lady Stark, I am Justice Pat Bolton.” He smiles at her when he rises, but she does not miss it falter when he spots Lady.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, ser.” She says, curtseying.

“Come, Lady Stark. We have prepared rooms for you and your retinue. Unfortunately, this is not a large settlement, but we made up the best rooms in the Inn.” The man bows again, and the gate rises. Sansa raises an eyebrow as she spots the two heavily armed guards patrolling the street.

“Is that necessary?” Jenny whispers, leaning over. “Gods, what threat are they expecting?”

“I am sure we will find out.” Sansa says, suddenly getting a very bad feeling about this entire situation.

The Justice must have heard them. “There have been scrimmages between our town and the savages.” He explains. “We are only taking precautions with the guards, my lady. You are perfectly safe here.”

“Of course, ser.” Sansa turns a smile at him. “I do not expect any different.” She elects to ignore the word he uses to describe the free folk.

They reach the Inn then and the Justice shows them to their chambers, all little more than a room with a bed. It is utilitarian, but Sansa could not have expected more.

“Thank you, ser.” She says. “It has been a long journey. I would like to speak with you tomorrow and then go visit the settlement.”

“The settlement?” The Justice asks. “Why would you like to go there?”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “To understand what happened.”

“The savages killed that poor girl.” The justice says, as if it were obvious.

“Nevertheless.” Sansa says, cutting him off before he can say anything else. “I would visit the settlement. We shall speak of it in the morrow.” Lady steps forward.

He startles, visibly, at the sight of her wolf and bows. “Of course, my lady.”

She watches him leave and then shudders.

Jenny comes closer, also looking after him and puts a hand on Sansa’s neck. “What an unpleasant man.”

 

+

 

The Weepriver Family hosts her for breakfast the next morning. She does not know what to say in the face of their grief, especially Lady Weepriver whose grief is still reflected on each line in her face. “And she was such a lovely girl.” The Lady says, her face crumpling. “And I just miss her so much, Lady Stark.”

“Of course.” Sansa reaches over the table and takes the ladies hands in both her hands. “And we will make certain that man who killed her pays. The gods will make sure of it.”

The lady pulls her hands from Sansa’s grip, retreating in her own chair. “This is all …” She pauses, her eyes darting towards her husband. “We were good Masters of Weepriver, Lady Stark, until those savages came. They took our most prosperous lands and our forests with the most game. We can barely pay upkeep to our town now and the Weepriver has turned foul.” Master Weepriver tries to quiet his wife, but she raises her voice. “This is the gods punishment for letting these savages into our lands, our home.”

“ELENAR!” Master Weepriver stands abruptly, grabbing his wife by the arm. He turns to Sansa with wide eyes. “I sincerely apologize, Lady Stark. My wife has gone mad with grief, she means no disrespect.”

Sansa looks at him, calmly, though her heart flutters in her chest – uncomfortably aware that many people across the north must be of the same mindset as Lady Weepriver. “Of course, I understand. Grief is a horrible thing.” Sansa says. “No offense was taken.”

Lady Weepriver removes her arm from her husbands grip with a sharp tug. “I suddenly find myself very tired, my lady. I will go grieve by myself, in my own room.”

“Of course, Lady Weepriver. I do pray you feel better this evening.” Sansa nods her head at the Lady, who disappears from the room without sparing her a second glance.

The room is left silent after Lady Weepriver’s departure. Sansa looks around the room. By the expression on the faces on two of the sons, they think the same as their mother. She busies herself with her breakfast, a simple meal of porridge and a slice of bacon.

She has no idea what to say to these people. She forgets sometimes that her own experiences with the Free Folk – undoubtably influenced by Jon and their help in taking Winterfell – are the same experiences as many of the North have. She knows it, but she forgets how much fear can influence the actions of people.

There is a knock at the door and the Justice enters.

He has a small smile on his face, bowing deeply before Sansa. “My lady Stark. I am glad to see you awake. I have made arrangements for the carriage to take us to the settlement.”

Sansa is surprised that he does not seem to acknowledge the family at all, and Master Weepriver is glaring daggers at the man. There does not seem to be any love lost between them. “Thank you, ser justice. I will finish my breakfast.”

“Of course.” The Justice takes the Lady’s vacated seat, seemingly not noticing the Master’s anger. “I will want to spend as little time as possible in that filthy place. They live like animals you know, living in mud and dirt huts.”

Sansa nods.

“I heard-“ The Justice continues, without pause. “I heard that they live near Winterfell in tiny huts. Is that true?”

“It is.” Sansa nods. “Though the huts-“

“I can scarcely believe. I came to Winter’s Town last winter, just for a little while, but I rather I will not this Winter if these people are settled in the same area.” The Justice shakes her head. “What a thing. Winter Town was such a harbor, such a kind place of the Starks to offer.”

Sansa swallows. What a smarmy man. He rather reminds her of Varys, in a strange way. “And Winter Town will still be a Harbor for anyone in need, Ser Justice.”

“Of course, it will. I only wonder if anyone will come any longer.”

“I am sure they will.” Sansa says, with a tight smile.

 

+

 

“Halla.” Sansa smiles at the little girl standing before her. “Ton da knar?”

The girl giggles, probably at Sansa’s pronunciation of the Old Tongue, but she responds. “Amma.”

“ _It is nice to meet you, Amma._ ” Sansa says, still speaking the Old Tongue. “ _How old are you?_ ”

The girl looks confused for a moment, looking back at the young Sansa expects is her mother.

“ _We don’t know how old she is._ ” The woman says. There is just enough contempt in her voice, for Sansa to blush.

“ _Of course, I apologize._ ” She says. She must remember, that some of the free folk don’t celebrate name days. “ _She is beautiful._ ”

“ _She is hungry._ ” The mother says. She is angry, and happy to finally have someone to confront. “ _There is no game in these woods._ ”

Sansa winces. “ _No game?_ ”

“ _None in our lands._ ” Another woman says. “ _The kneelers drove all out before we came. Our land is barren, and we are hungry._ ”

Sansa has absolutely no idea what to say. “Is that true, Justice?” She asks, in the Common Tongue, addressing the man.

He just looks at her. “I don’t speak the savage language.” He spits. “It is not proper to speak.”

Sansa does not miss the judgement in his voice. “They are claiming that their game is being driven from their woods. Is that true, Ser Justice?”

“Of course not.” The man says harshly. “Why would we do that?”

“I am not saying you did it.” Sansa says, though she surely thinks it. “I am only trying to ascertain whether there are any truths to their claim.”

“ _What is he saying?_ ” One man asks.

One of the women responds: “ _He is calling us savages._ ”

“ _I would like to see the settlement, if I may. Is there anyone who can show me around?_ ” Sansa says, addressing the free folk who have assembled.

“ _Toregg can._ ” One of the women say, pushing forward a young man who is tall, broad and has a fearsome expression on his face. They are trying to scare her.

“ _Toregg is it?_ ” Sansa asks. “ _I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard Stark._ ”

“ _Toregg, son of Tormund._ ” The young man introduces himself.

Sansa hopes the surprise isn’t visible on her face. Tormund is here? Settled by the Dreadfort? Well, she thinks with horror, that can only end in bloodshed.

“My lady you cannot think to-!” The Justice cries out when Sansa steps toward Toregg.

She turns to him. “What is it, ser justice?” She asks, faux innocently.

“You cannot leave with that savage.”

“Toregg here will show me around the settlement, ser justice. I will make my own mind of this situation.” Sansa tells him firmly. “My guards will come with me.”

The Justice scowls.

Toregg does not turn out to be talk-active guide. He points out the tent of his father, Tormund, who he says leads this settlement, and where they have started to build huts. When she asks, he takes her to the edge of the woods and points out the edges of the land. They are marked by posts that Sansa fears will be gone with the first hefty snowfall.

“ _How many people live here?_ ” She asks finally.

“ _Almost 700._ ” Toregg tells her. “ _We were more once, but a few left for the settlement at Hornwood._ ”

“ _Why there?_ ”

“ _More game._ ”

“ _Do you truly think it is design that there is no game in these woods._ ”

“ _We do._ ” He says. “ _We have seen people in the woods._ ”

If that is true, Sansa thinks, it would jeopardize the entire endeavor. “ _You know I cannot do anything without any evidence._ ”

Toregg looks at her and she can see his jaw clench. “You hear the word of the northman over our word.” He says, in the Common Tongue. He sounds accusing and Sansa does not truly blame him.

“ _I have not heard all sides yet_.” She then takes a breath. “ _Tell me what you know of the dead girl._ ”

“ _Not much._ ” Toregg says. “ _She was killed by the road and was a farm girl from near here. I first heard of her when the justice came here accusing us._ ”

Sansa shakes her head. This is a mess. “ _Did anyone here know her?_ ”

“ _I will not tell you, just as I did not tell the Justice._ ”

“ _I do not wish to cast any blame yet. However, she was seen with a free folk the night before she was killed. I only to speak with this man._ ”

Toregg pauses. Finally, he says: “ _Yes. One of the boys, Dayne, was in love with her. She was in love with him too._ ”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “ _In love? How did they meet?_ ”

“ _In the market at the Godswood._ ” Toregg says.

Sansa nods. The justice had told her of the market, where smallfolk and free folk bartered and traded once a week. “ _Where is Dayne?_ ”

Toregg looks uncomfortable, but he leads her, back through the settlement to a tent. _“Through here.”_

Sansa steps into the tent. A young man looks up when she does. He looks dreadful, with big circles beneath his eyes and bloodshot eyes.

“Hello Dayne.” Sansa says. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I have been told you knew Mira.”

Dayne looks behind her, at Toregg. “I did.”

“Can you tell me about her?”

His face crumples. “She was the most beautiful woman in this world.” He chokes on a sob.

Her heart breaks for him, for the poor boy, who had clearly loved the girl very much. “ _I grieve with you._ ”

He looks up at the use of the old tongue and nods, tears still in his eyes. “ _I thank you._ ”

She makes the mental note to thank Thyra for teaching for that particular oddity of the Old Tongue and steps closer to Dayne. “I know it is difficult, but I need to understand who Mira was.”

“Why?”

“So that I can determine who killed her.”

He looks at her, eyes roaming across her face and she attempts to project as much strength as is possible. “Alright.” He says finally. “What to you want to know?”

 

+

 

_To Robb Stark, from Sansa Stark of Winterfell:_

My dearest brother, this situation is a mess. I cannot tell who is lying to me and who is truthful. I would like to believe everyone is truthful, but there are too many contradictions. Tensions are rising high. The town has built a wall and has posted guards by the only gate. The settlement is similarly guarded, and they claim that Bolton men have been driving game out of their land. Everyone is pointing fingers at one another and I do not know how to mediate this.

Also, the appointed justice is not a good man. I understand that bad men can be good in their assignment, but he is not that either. He calls the free folk “savages” and is very obviously not a man who can be trusted to be our representative. Angering the Boltons be damned, I urge you to find another justice for the Bolton lands.

With love and I hope to be home soon, **Sansa Stark**.

 

+

 

“Sansa. Wake up.” Someone tugs at her arm and Sansa blearily opens her eyes.

“What?” She mutters, trying to turn around, but she is stopped.

Jenny leans over her, panic written clearly on her face. “Sansa. Wake. Quick.”

It sharpens Sansa’s mind enough for her to hear the screams audible even through the thick wooden door. “What is happening?”

“Attack.” Jenny says quietly. “Get dressed quick. We need to leave.”

Sansa gasps, hurrying out of bed. She puts on her simplest dress and pulls her boots onto her feet just as the chamber door is flung open. Lady growls loudly, and Jenny stands before her in a second, brandishing a sword, but it is only Dorris. “My lady. We need to leave. Now.”

Sansa swallows heavily, but nods, and she stays between Dorris and Jeyne as they carefully make their way down the Inn’s staircase. She fingers the dagger Jon gave her, wondering how adapt she will be at defending herself. If all else fails, Lady will be protection enough.

She can still hear people screaming, but it does not prepare her for the pandemonium that awaits when they step outside. It appears as though the half the town’s people are dead, lying in the streets with rivers of blood forming in the slight steep. Even more are running, women and children being chased by men in furs.

“Oh Gods.” Jenny whispers as they take in the pandemonium.

The furs are distinctly of the free folk. Sansa cannot help but feel betrayed. After so much the Starks had done for the free folk they turned around and attacked innocent town’s people?

“It’s the Stark bitch!” A man shouts, and Sansa is shoved behind Jenny as Dorris storms forward, making quick work of the first man. The second attacks Dorris with a loud scream and Sansa can only watch breathlessly as Dorris is hit in the stomach.

“Sansa. We need to leave, now.” Jenny whispers and Sansa is pushed forward, and they run, run towards wherever safety is. Sansa gasps as a young woman is gutted before her eyes and the man turns to look up at her with blood splattered across his face. He laughs loudly when he sees her look at them.

“Oh Gods.” Sansa whispers, under her breath as they run. She slips, twice, hands stained with the blood running through the streets, and the second time she pukes as she slips and stares directly in the face of a child. “I am so sorry.”

Jenny gets her back on her feet before Sansa can even take a breath, pushing on. “Sansa quickly.”

They can see the gate, almost to safety, when Jenny gasps suddenly and Sansa turns, towards her lady, and gapes at the sword sticking from Jenny’s throat.

“I-“ Jenny rasps, before the sword is ripped from her throat again and Sansa’s beautiful lady falls to the floor. Sansa only stares at her, bile rising in her throat again, before she turns to face Jenny’s murderer.

It is a Bolton man. Sansa recognizes him immediately, from the life long past when he had been seated at Ramsay’s side, and she gasps. “You-“ She breathes, relishing the look of panic in the man’s eyes.

She runs, and she can hear the man curse up a storm, before he takes her by the waist and slamming her to the ground. Her dagger falls and Sansa gasps as the man holds his forearm against her throat. She can’t, she can’t breathe, and it hurts as she struggles against his heavy pressure, hitting him with her pitifully weak arms. She can’t breathe and there is black before her eyes, as she futilely gasps for air.

There is a flash and suddenly the pressure is from her throat, air rushing back. It makes her lightheaded as she gasps for air, inhaling the blood that sprays from the bite in the man’s neck. Lady stands between her and the falling corpse. Her muzzle is covered in blood.

She laughs, a horrible sound even to her own ears, and she moves forward, stumbling through the mud and blood. “Jenny.” She whispers, crawling over to her dear, dear friend and she sobs at Jenny’s lifeless eyes staring up at her. She sits down, heavily, onto the bloody floor and pulls Jenny closer, cradling her motionless body. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.” She whispers, leaning down to kiss Jenny’s forehead. She tastes blood on her lips and leans away to puke onto the ground next to her. Lady steps in and butts her head against Sansa’s back, as if to get her to stand.

Perhaps she should go, Sansa thinks, looking over towards the Gate that is currently hidden from her sight. It is not far, but what then? This was the Boltons, she knows that now, but they were dressed as free folk and killed northmen. This was perfidious. This was clever. This had Roose Bolton written all over it. If Roose Bolton got Robb and Mother to believe the free folk had killed her, Sansa could not honestly say she knew or believed they would stay calm and rational.

Sansa gently lays Jenny back down and stands, after breathing out once, twice, three times with her eyes screwed shut. She stands, almost slipping on the mud of blood, and tries to clean her hands on her dress, but it only makes it worse. She stumbles over to the Bolton man and breathes in a few times, before she starts undressing him.

The furs are heavy with blood, but they will keep Sansa warm and hopefully hidden, and she also takes the man’s belt and sheath. She also picks up her discarded dagger and wipes it on her dress.

“Alright Sansa.” She tells herself. “Let’s go.”

She is lucky that no one has stumbled upon her yet, for there must still be a great many attacker around. She feels safer with the furs on, at least they hide her hair, and she retreats into a nearby alley with Lady and prays.

 

+

 

There are still men running around the town, and they are searching for her. She heard them talking about looking for her corpse to show their lord, but they have not found her yet, hiding in the roost of a barn. The blood and mud staining her dress has hardened, stiffening the dress so she can barely move, but Sansa does not dare move even an inch, in fear of being found.

She muffles her tears in the cup of her bloody hand, stifling the hitching breathes as she stares blindly up at the wall. She can see Jenny’s lifeless eyes every time she closes her eyes.

She does not know how much time passes, but the light in the roost changes and she watches the shadows outside until the tears stop and she falls asleep.

A hand clasps over her mouth, waking Sansa and she struggles, uselessly. “Shut up, girl.” An accented voice hisses, spinning her around. “You will alert the men.” 

Lady is awake again, snarling as she attacks on of the men, but Sansa sharply calls out, “Lady!”, as she recognizes Toregg. Relief flood her, and she is not able to stop the tears from coming to her eyes. She clasps one, dirty and bloody, hand to her eyes and shudders. “Why are you here?”

“This was not us.” One of Toregg’s companions says immediately.

“I know.” Sansa shudders. She composes herself as best she can, wiping the tears away. Lady steps closer to Sansa, nudging her with her massive head.

“Stop it girl.” Toregg says gently. “You are only wiping blood on.”

Sansa drops her hand immediately and she feels ill at the thought of the blood staining her. Jenny’s blood. “This was the Boltons.” She says.

“How do you know?” One of Toregg’s companion asks.

“I recognized one.” Sansa tells them. “How did you find me?”

Toregg looks uncomfortable. “We were watching the town and saw the attack.”

“I need to go.” Sansa says, turning. She will start walking if she must. “I want to go home.”

“Aye, little Stark.” Toregg says, surprisingly gently. “But you cannot leave by yourself.”

“Is the settlement-“ Sansa does not know how to end that sentence. She looks up at the three men. They exchange looks Sansa cannot read.

“We do not know if they are safe.” The shorter one of Toregg’s companions says.

The other growls. “This is fucking stupid.”

Lady growls again, and both look at Sansa’s wolf with a generous measure of fear. Toregg is not afraid, Sansa notices which is interesting. She decides to take pity on the other two. “They are not a threat, Lady.” She puts a hand on the Lady’s back. “What are your names?”

“Isak.” The shorter of the two says.

“Ivar.” The taller says.

“Lady.” Sansa wraps an arm around Lady’s neck. “Isak, Ivar and Toregg are no threats.”

Isak looks grateful and he steps out of Ivar’s shadow slightly. “Is she a proper direwolf?”

“Yes. She is not yet grown.”

“Enough chit-chat.” Toregg says. “We need to leave.”

 

+

 

Three men, a lady and a wolf are not the most inconspicuous group, but they manage to sneak from the town without being spotted. They stay off the road, walking through the wood and marches in a single file.

The settlement comes into view by late afternoon and Sansa thinks she will weep in gratitude if she can bathe soon. The men have stayed quiet the whole day, only making the bare minimum of conversation with her, and while Sansa is grateful, she also feels the silence weighing heavily on her mind.

Tormund appears by the street as they approach, and Sansa wonders how he knew to come out. She thought they had been well hidden, but they had obviously been sighted. “What happened?” He asks, sharply, taking in Sansa’s appearance. Gods, she must look a fright, Sansa thinks if a man such a Tormund reacts with such horror.

“ _The kneelers attacked their own and are trying to blame us for it_.” Toregg says, sounding furious. “ _They fucking killed everyone._ ”

“ _And her?_ ” Tormund asks, nodding towards Sansa.

“ _The little Stark survived. She was the one who recognized the Boltons._ ” Toregg says.

Sansa would roll her eyes at being ignored, but she is too fucking exhausted. “ _The Boltons killed their own smallfolk and will probably attack this settlement any day. I know it was them and not you. I expect they wished to kill me as well to get my brother to turn against the free folk, but alas I am still alive. But if I am not able to get out of these fucking clothes soon, I might do something rather drastic._ ” Sansa says. She can hear her voice rise a little in hysterics, but she thinks it can be excused. She has had a really long day. She has watched her loyal guard and Jenny killed to protect her. She watched Lady kill a man and she is still covered in all of their blood.

Tormund laughs. “All right then, little Stark.” He turns towards the men behind him and orders them to secure the perimeter of the settlement. Then he turns to Sansa’s new companions. “Isak, accompany the lady to the river and bring her to my tent when you are done.”

Sansa bristles at being ordered by the man, but she does not argue. She follows Isak through the settlement, ignoring the curious looks by the free folk. They leave her alone, probably because of the massive direwolf following her closely, but Sansa can hear the whispers nevertheless.

The river is exactly that, a river. Sansa doesn’t pause, too desperate to be clean, and she doesn’t even order Isak to turn around, sure that Lady will ensure the man behaves. The water is icy when she enters, but it turns red immediately when she starts scrubbing the blood from her arms. Even her hair and face are dirty and taking a deep breath she submerges herself fully in the icy water. It nearly knocks the breath from her lungs and when the thought catches in her mind, she feels herself shaking.

She shakes as she reemerges, feeling her legs wobble as she walks out of the river. A girl, no older than Sansa, is standing by the side with a new dress. “Thank you.” Sansa rasps, though her voice breaks on the words. The dress does not fit well, but it does the job of not forcing Sansa back into her filthy nightgown. Tying the lace is difficult as her hands shake, and Sansa looks up in surprise when the girl gently touches her hands and helps Sansa tie them up. It is probably not the small gesture of kindness alone that drives tears into Sansa’s eyes, but she starts weeping then.

Jenny will never go home to the Last Hearth, she will never help Sansa with her hair ever again and she will never see the sun again. Jenny will never get a proper burial. Her body is still lying somewhere on the street, brutalized, and there is nothing Sansa can do about it.

Dorris is dead as well, brave and gentle Dorris, who had protected her so well. Dorris whose body was just as cold and alone as Jenny’s.

And Sansa does not even wish to think of all the women and children who perished at the swords of the Bolton men. They had done nothing wrong, only living in the wrong town while Sansa came to visit.

She does not know how long she weeps, but neither the girl nor Isak say a word until she wipes the last remnants from her face and turns towards them again. “Let’s go speak with Tormund.” She says with a voice as icy as she can manage. She is glad it doesn’t waver.

Isak nods. “Hilla will come with us.” He says. Sansa looks at the girl, who smiles back. The smile looks uncomfortable, but Sansa appreciates the effort. Isak adds: “Hilla is my sister.”

They nod at each other and then Isak leads the way, back through the settlement towards the tent Toregg had pointed out to her during her tour. Sansa is ushered in and she very closely hides her reaction towards the veritable war council that faces her.

A dozen men, most as tall and broad as Tormund and his sons, stands before her and though she is tall for a girl her age, she suddenly feels small and dreadfully young. It is unnerving to have them all stare at her. If she had had a better day, she may be better equipped to deal with this now, but as it is Sansa feels uncomfortable and she only wants to go home.

“ _This is the Stark of Winterfell?_ ” One of the men asks.

“ _She has been crying._ ” Another notices.

Sansa looks over at Toregg, surprised he has not told them she knows the Old Tongue. He sits by the fire warming his hands and does not look up. “ _I just lost my guard and one of my dearest friends and saw hundreds of people slaughtered. Excuse it if I am crying.”_ Sansa says, infusing all the bitterness into her voice she is feeling. It turns out more scathing than bitter, but she relishes the shock that pass over many faces. “Now, what are you going to do?”

Tormund steps forward then. “The Stark is right. The kneelers are trying to turn everyone against us. We need to be prepared.”

“Get me home and I will tell everyone who will listen that it was not you.” Sansa says immediately. “The Boltons will pay for what they did, but there cannot be any revenge.”

“Revenge?” One of the men asks, with a laugh. “None of ours died.”

“Nevertheless, you cannot attack.” Sansa says. “You cannot do anything that can be construed as an aggression against the north.”

“Or else your brother will kill all free folk?” The same man asks. “Fucking kneelers.”

Lady snarls outside the tent, probably sensing Sansa’s aggravation. “The Boltons are clever.” Sansa spits. “They dressed in your furs. All people will find when they come to the town are a lot of dead northmen and a few dead men who look like the free folk. Do you think that anyone will stop to think before they start blaming you for all those deaths? And what do you think will happen then? No one will stop to wait for any kind of permission. They will slaughter all of you, especially if they think you killed me.”

“Oh, you are that important, are you?” The man snarls back.

“Yes.” Sansa says simply. “I am the daughter of the liege lord of Winterfell. The North owes everything to the Starks. Now, do you think they will not kill you? Do you think you are that important?”

“Why you little-“ The man steps forward and Lady bursts in, snarling and slamming the man to the ground.

“Derrik, that is enough!” Tormund says calmly. “And Lady Stark, I would appreciate it if you calm your wolf.”

He seems to be the only one in the tent not deathly afraid of Lady. Sansa bares her teeth and claps against her thigh. Lady is back at her side in an instant, calm but vigilant. The man, Derrik, gets up, looking pale and shaken. He steps to the far end of the tent, putting as much distance between himself and Lady as possible.

“I believe she is right.” Tormund says. “We may not like it, but she needs to go home.”

“Any castle of men loyal to my family will do.” Sansa says.

Tormund shakes his head. “Winterfell.”

Sansa will not argue, happy if she can get home again. Gods, she thinks, if this is what always happens when she leaves Winterfell, she will truly never leave home again. “I will not survive a day alone in the woods.” She admits.

Tormund looks at her with an amused expression. “That may be so. Toregg will join you.”

“I’ll go too.” Isak volunteers. “I have always wanted to see Winterfell.”

“You should all leave.” Sansa says, desperately. These people are doomed. The Boltons will slaughter each and every one of them. “Please.”

One of the men laughs. “We are not afraid of some kneelers.”

“You should be. Ramsay Bolton is …” She shudders. The stories Jeyne and Theon had told her. It makes her ill just thinking of it. “The Boltons know no scruples. They will do anything to tear this realm apart.”

“They just killed 500 of their own smallfolk.” Tormund says. “I believe we know how scrupulous they are.”

Sansa would argue, but she is too tired. “It is your life.” She sighs. “I can only give counsel.”

“And it is heard.” Tormund says. “But we are no kneelers and we take no orders.”

Sansa is too tired for politics. “I truly don’t care.” She says. Mother and the Septa would be horrified to hear her now. “But I will hold the right to say, ‘I told you so’, to your corpses.”

Tormund erupts into bellowing laughter. “I will allow you that, little wolf. My daughter has a tent. Go sleep.”

Sansa nods and turns away. Isak holds the opening of the tent open for her, and she is confronted by a girl twice the size of any girl Sansa had ever seen. This must be Tormund’s daughter, she thinks.

“I am Munda.” The girl introduces herself. “Come on.”

 The tent is not far away and Munda hands Sansa a cup of warm tea and tucks her into bed with an impassive expression. Sansa shivers until there are three furs packed over her, and as soon as the tea is drunken, and her head hits the pillow, she is out like a light.

 

+

 

The smell of meat rises in Sansa’s nose and she stands, on too many legs, with a head too heavy. She looks around, pin-pointing the smell and bounds over to the fire. The man sitting there curses, loudly, and a liquid splashes against her legs. She sniffs at the liquid. Ale, she thinks, and poor one at that.

“Is that the Stark girl’s wolf?” Another man asks.

“I think so, aye.”

“What a beast.”

She bounds up and approaches the second man. He holds his position, though she can smell his fear. She sniffs at him, once, twice, before turning away without interest. She can feel his exhale of relief on the back of her neck, but she walks off leisurely.

The settlement looks different at night. Fires are lit as far as she can see, and the smell of meat and ale fill the air. Men and women alike sit by the fires and they talk and laugh. None smell afraid of the battle to come. She walks through the street, enjoying the startled cries when she passes, and walks past people who pull a dagger at the sight of her. Finally, she steps out of the settlement and into the woods. The guards let her pass without question and when she is free, Sansa starts running.

She can smell it, the sweat of an advancing army. She runs as quick as she can in the direction she can smell the sweat and she runs until she stands on the top of a hill looking down at an advancing army crawling up the nearby countryside. They are not 2 hours from the settlement and they have to –

 

Sansa wakes with a gasp and she jumps out of bed, falling as her feet tangle in her dress. The sharp pain of landing on her hands anchor her to the present and wake her and Sansa stumbles out of the tent.

The man sitting before the tent wakes from his slumber and Sansa gasps: “They are coming.”, at him before she is off towards the tent she knows is Tormund’s. He sits before it, at the fire, with his sons, and looks up when she comes up. “2 hours. You have two hours. They are coming.” She tells him.

“How do you know?” Tormund asks. He looks properly alarmed, that is something, but Sansa is not sure if he is alarmed about the correct thing.

She decides to tell him. “My wolf saw them.” She looks over the assembled men. “I am a warg.”

One of the men rears back as if struck, but Tormund nods. “Where did you see the men?”

“Not men, an army.” Sansa corrects. “I saw at least a thousand men, if not more, coming from the west.”

Tormund nods. “Wake everyone.” He orders one of the men. “And tell everyone to prepare for battle and to remember the plans.” He turns towards her. “You must leave now.”

Sansa nods. “I am prepared.”

“The wolf?”

“Will find her way to me.” Sansa says. She has faith in Lady.

“Good.” Tormund turns back. “Toregg, leave with them.”

Toregg stands, protesting. “Father! You cannot, I will fight!”

“We cannot leave our fucking home to come south, so we can survive the Others to then fucking die in a war amongst men.” Tormund says sharply. “Take her home. And take Isak and Derrik with you.”

Toregg is up in an instance, grabbing Sansa by the arm and manhandling her to follow him. She has half the mind to demand what he is thinking, but perhaps this is not the time. He walks briskly, and Sansa nearly runs to catch up with him.

“Isak! Gather a pack.” Toregg orders once he sees the tall blonde.

Isak doesn’t protest, retreating into his tent and Toregg pushes Sansa forward a little. “Ask Hilla for furs. She is about your size.”

“Are we not leaving right now?” Sansa asks, quietly.

Toregg laughs. “We would not survive the week.” He tells her shortly. “You need proper furs.”

Sansa only nods and steps into the tent she now knows is Hilla’s. The other girl looks up in surprise when Sansa enters, though her face relaxes when she recognizes Sansa. “We need to leave quickly, and I need furs for the journey.”

Hilla nods. “They say you saw the kneeler coming?” She asks as she starts getting out furs.

Sansa nods, feeling uncomfortable with so many people knowing she can warg. This was a secret for her family, not for stranger she had never met before. “I am sorry.”

“Did you tell them to come here?” Hilla asks.

“No of course not!”

“Then don’t apologize.” Hilla tells her firmly. She puts furs into Sansa’s arm. “Here. Put them on.”

Hilla doesn’t turn around for Sansa’s comfort and Sansa feels the gaze on her as she slips into the leather skin trousers and the layers of furs. Nothing fits well, but Sansa can move, something she tests out by stretching slightly, and moving will be a priority over looking good in the coming weeks.

“Your hair is like a signal.” Hilla tells her after a moment. “Come.”

Sansa follows Hilla from the tent. Toregg still stands before it, an uncomfortable expression on his face as he takes her in.

“The hair.” Hilla says to him. “I have berries.”

“We don’t have the time.” Toregg says.

Sansa frowns. What berries. “Time for what?”

“To dye your hair.”

It takes Sansa’s breath away. She had dyed her hair once before, and she remembers how lost she had felt as Alayne. “Oh.” She says meekly. “That is a good idea.” Unconsciously, one of her fingers wrap a strand of hair around her finger.

Hilla looks faintly sympathetic. “Come then.” To Toregg she says: “Isak takes long to pack. We still have time.”

Toregg looks unhappy still, but he doesn’t stop Sansa from following Hilla down the street towards another tent. Hilla doesn’t wait before bursting in and a young woman looks up, startled.

“Hilla!” She says. “What?”

“We need your dye!” Hilla tells her. “Please, Ves”

Ves nods, looking up at Sansa with unbridled curiosity, and then she gets a jar with a thick black paste out from under her cot. “Sit. I’ll help.” She says and Hilla pushes Sansa to take a seat on the ground.

Sansa stays silent as the two women take her hair from the braid and slather the foul-smelling paste all over it. “Will it wash out?” Sansa asks, hating how her voice shakes a little.

“Eventually.” Ves tells her.  

It takes less time than Sansa had thought before she stands before the two, and they nod as they eye her. “Unrecognizable.” Hilla says. “Now you must hurry.” She pushes Sansa out of the tent.

Toregg waits for her outside the tent, and he nods at her appearance. “Good.” He hands her a pack, made of fur and leather as she can tell. “Yours. Take it and follow.”

Isak is there already she realizes, and she follows Toregg. He walks with purpose and Isak follows too. They make their way out of the settlement and into the nearest wood. Sansa turns back, and wonders if any of these people will be alive come morning.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. This was supposed to be published on the anniversary of this fic being first published (Fourth of August), but then my mum fell really ill last month and while this was 3/4ths finished, I did not find the energy to do shit between exams and hospital visits. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this!


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